


An Ode to the Boy I Love

by lookingforatardis



Series: Hammer Lodge [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: AU, Armie is still a hopeful sap dont worry, First Love, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Sequel, reconnecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2019-11-13 03:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: SEQUEL TO HAMMER LODGEAfter coming out, Armie realizes there's one force stronger than blood in this world - Love. Determined not to lose the one person who changed his life, he continues his journey of love and self-acceptance, now knowing what it takes to make it last.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO! Welcome to the sequel. I am so excited to finally get to share this with all of you. I'm so proud of this sequel and happy that all of you have jumped on board to see how their stories come back together. Thank you so much for the incredible comments and all the kudos along the way! <3 
> 
> (Also...Some of you had questions about the shirt timmy sent to armie- I think Timmy probably didn't have an actual address other than the main lodge and believed that, since Armie is literally always at the front desk, he would see it first.) 
> 
> Title from Animal by Troye Sivan

My parents have decided I'm no longer their son.

A decision I'm sure was made with little fanfare, neither wanting to claim me now that they know everything. They read my texts, saw the pictures exchanged between us, understood that this was not infatuation that would be easily fought with simple threats. They took my laptop.

I had nearly three months until I graduated, which was long enough. If I so much as breathed in a way they disapproved of, they began lecturing me on all the ways my life would go downhill if I "slipped up." I knew walking out had consequences that I wasn't sure I was prepared to face yet. Soon, I'd tell myself every night.

They barely spoke to me, kept our relationship more professional than anything, save the few instances where my mother would begin worrying about my mental health. She didn't seem to like it when I suggested Timmy would help alleviate my stress.

It was fine. The distance was welcome, even. I worked a lot. Spent more time at school where the computers weren't monitored so closely and an hour of catching up with Timmy on social media when our schedules aligned could sustain me through the days they didn't.

I didn't get into the New York colleges I applied to. I almost believed Dad when he expressed his disappointment, his _surprise_. I tried moving out, slept on a friends couch for a week before I'd been cut off and realized my account, still connected to theirs, had been frozen. I started a new one and returned home, didn't speak to them for another week.

Timmy sent me his email as a last resort through Facebook days before I suddenly lost access to my own fucking account after it was terminated. I could check from school or a borrowed phone or laptop so we could attempt to keep in contact. My mother apologized profusely and told me it was for my own good. That they loved me enough to stop me from going down a path I couldn't return from. It was no use arguing.

When we graduated, Timmy sent me a picture of him smiling in his cap and gown, arm draped over his sister. I checked from Vik's phone and sent my own pictures back.

I cried for an hour, and then finished packing my bags. I moved out the following day, went to California. I got into UCLA, one of the only places I applied to without telling my parents. It was a miracle, as my parents put it. I could see the bitterness in their eyes. It was too liberal, too exposed, too accepting. They had no say in the matter. I'd already registered as a student before telling them to prevent any additional roadblocks. The university was as far as I could get, somewhere I could be myself.

It almost made up for the fact that Timmy and I completely lost touch over the summer after he went abroad for two and a half months, effectively eliminating any plan for us to reunite, the disappointment palpable. It was never the same.

 

* * *

 

 

I take out loans and buy a car, rent an apartment with a return address I do not share with the family. I date the TA of one of my classes, a guy named James, towards the end of my freshman year of college. He makes me breakfast on my birthday and tells me he loves me with the wisdom of someone who knew what that meant in the real world. He brings me to his parent's house in San Diego for the following Thanksgiving. We break up the first week in December, and I spend my holiday break fucking my way through the pain of losing another person.

 

 

I change my major and meet Charles in a meeting for the English department. He reads his poetry to me on the lawn and we date for two years off and on until we graduate. He cheats on me in the end, but I stopped loving him so long before it happened that I felt relieved to finally have an excuse to end the relationship.

Viktor attends my graduation, my parents do not. I get a pretty decent job from my internship with an editing firm in LA a few months after graduation and count my blessings. I don't date the cute paralegal two floors down in the office building, but we do kiss at the Christmas party. I try not to think about Timmy when there's a snowstorm on the news hitting New York. I draft an email to him, seven actually, but delete them all.

His number changed, but so did mine.

Vik comes to visit me and tells me all the family drama. "I think they miss you, brother," he tells me. I almost believe him, but since I'd moved, they only called on the holidays. "You should go back. Say hello."

Three days after Viktor leaves, Dad invites me back, just fucking calls me and tells me he'd like the family back together for Christmas, a week away at that point. Vik convinces me in the end, tells me that they're different now, he swears. Apparently too many years with a fractured family made them realize I wouldn’t change my sexuality to bend to their expectations.

When I arrive, my father shakes my hand and smiles at me. My mother hugs me and tells me she missed me, that I look good. Over dinner, she asks if I've been seeing any nice girls. I look at Viktor and sigh, shake my head. "No, Mom. I'm gay, remember?"

"Oh. You're still gay."

"Yes, Mom. _Still_ gay. Not seeing anyone right now, though."

And so it goes, the two of them easing around the subjects of my life as if they're mines ready to blow at any second. I suppose they are. But they talk, they talk so much, and they ask about work and LA and college.

Dad gives me a hug when I leave and it doesn't feel forced.

Aside from a brief birthday message, I don't hear from them for another 10 months, but it's better when I visit for Thanksgiving, for Christmas.

 

 

I get called into my boss' office after two years working at the firm. "We have a transfer for you, if you're up for it."

"Of course, Ma'am," I smile, easy.

"It's a significant jump in responsibility. You'll have a nice pay raise as well," she assures me. I nod and try to look an appropriate amount of enthusiastic. We have additional offices in Dallas, Vancouver, and New York. I don't know which it'll be, but anything would be a nice change of pace; six years in California felt like enough. "You know I'm a big fan of yours, I'd hate to lose you before you have a chance to climb the ladder here," she says. Annalise was my internship advisor, she hired me when I graduated and had since risen the ranks quite well. She'd be the only one I miss. "But… New York is calling for you," she smiles.

"New York?" I smile, my hands rubbing together slowly.

"Is that alright?" she asks, leaning back with a smirk.

"It's the dream."

 

 

I get lost on the subway my first day in the city. "It's easy, idiot. Go uptown if you need to go north, it says it right on the signs," Vik tells me. He's been living in DC, and insists their transportation is far superior. When I tell my new coworker this as an anecdote to build some form of connection, he smirks and says, "It's a DC thing. They think they've got it so good when really it's a mess there. Subways are easy, man. And anyway, it's a grid. You'll get it."

Grid system or not, I can't seem to catch on. I get to work each day fine but end up on the wrong lines, the wrong directions, nearly every night. It takes me two solid weeks before I'm in a coffee shop, sipping a cappuccino that's starting to cool, rain pouring outside in a neighborhood I didn’t even mean to end up in, that I realize some part of me must still be looking.

I realize I don't actually know what he did after he studied at Columbia, if he even finished there or transferred or quit. I don't even know if he's in this city, but the rain outside and the coffee in my system tell me he must be, that this restlessness I feel is because he's closer than he has been in years. I draft an email to an address that I'm not sure is even his anymore. This time I send it, a simple checking in, moved to New York, wondering if you're still around. Innocent. As if he wasn't the first person I fell in love with. Perhaps the only one I ever really loved.

I wait eagerly in the coffee shop for his response.

After an hour, I realize an email may not result in the quick reply I'm hoping for and give up waiting.

I step in a puddle on my way home and curse, a child passing by picking up the word and throwing it back at me before walking away. I check my phone. I check it again when I unlock my door, and again when I make dinner. I check it before going to bed, my heart sinking.

It's been six and a half years.

I still miss him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am genuinely in awe at the response (FAST response) to this story. I know I tell you all this time and time again, but your feedback means the world to me. The fact that I look at your AO3 names and recognize you and know your commenting patterns and know how long you've been with me and this story-- it blows me away. Thank you so much for the love and support, seriously. 
> 
> A note on the prologue: I know that time jump is hard for some of you. But I really do think it was necessary... I'll explain more in the endnotes!
> 
> Note: I do not know anything about editing firms or publishers lol all mistakes are my own. also these emails are fake so. dont email them.

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

* * *

* * *

 

I wake up late, out of breath, sitting straight up in my bed as light just barely begins streaming through the cracks of my curtained window. I look towards my bedside table—no alarm clock. It's on the floor, upside down though I have no recollection of hitting it when it must have gone off this morning. I know by now that if I shower, I'll be late unless I grab a cab. I'm not entirely sure it's worth the cost or the headache of watching traffic from a cab window.

I stumble out of bed, the sheets dragging after me as I nearly trip on my running shoes only to catch myself on the wall, bruising my shoulder in the process no doubt.

I stretch while walking to grab a cup of coffee, grateful as hell that I'd bought a timed automatic pot when I moved in. I sip while dressing and quickly regret it as I spill right after buttoning up my shirt. With a groan, I rip it off and grab another, glaring at the coffee as my phone starts ringing. Balancing on one leg while pulling some pants on, I answer. "Yeah?"

"Mark DeLang will be in at 9:30 instead of 10 this morning. They need you to handle it, Cathleen's morning meeting doesn't end in time."

" _Alone?"_

"Armie, do you want me to tell them you're not ready—"

" _No_ , don't. 9:30, yeah, okay," I mutter. The phone slips from between my shoulder and ear and for a moment all I can do is stare at it. " _Fucking perfect."_   I grab it quickly and search for a tie. "Listen, I'm running late so is there anything else?"

"Nope, that's it. Coffee?"

"Yeah but from the place that makes it strong as hell. I'm not fucking with office coffee if I have to lead a deal by myself. Can you grab his manuscript for me?"

"Sure thing. Don't be late."

"Mm." I hang up and throw the phone onto bed, finish buttoning my shirt, and slip on some shoes before lacing the tie around my neck, grab a blazer and my backpack, and start leaving. "Phone! Fuck," I turn back, grabbing it and my keys, before running down the stairs of my building and out the door. My arms slip into the blazer and the bag is slung over my shoulder mid stride as I swing my body around the corner of the subway entrance and jog down the steps, swipe my card, and make it moments before the doors close.

 

 

 

"Armie, Mark is—"

"Yeah, I know! 9:30!" I call over my shoulder, walking right past our receptionist, Sarah. "Coffee," I point at Drew, throwing my bag off my shoulder and onto my desk.

"God, you're grumpy when you wake up late," he mutters, extending a hand with a large cup from the shop on the first floor of the building next door.

"Oh Jesus, thank you," I sigh, taking a gulp. I nod at Cathleen, our fearless leader, as she walks by with a look that says _don't fuck this one up_ , Sarah at her side with a few folders and a manuscript, already talking a mile a minute to catch her up on something. She walks out of sight and I collapse into my chair, head lulling back.

"You good?" I glance at Drew and feel the corners of my lips turn up.

"This is the first meeting they've let me run on my own. And it's fucking DeLang. Drew _, DeLang_. He's a goddamn bestseller, this is _huge_." I look up to find him fighting a smirk. 

"I know. Congrats, don't worry about it too much. You'll be fine, rookie," he says with a hand on my shoulder as he grabs his own mug and walks away to his office. I have about twenty minutes to prep before it starts and opt to review our notes on the deal, hands shaking. My phone chimes and I pull it out of my pocket and see it's just a text from my super about a plumbing thing in the building. I drop the phone onto my desk and return my focus to the file in front of me before stopping, glancing back at the phone, and picking it back up.

I scroll through the notifications until I see it, a new email. I have to do a double-take at the email address, my mind going blank for half a second. I glance up and around the busy office, back at the manuscript, the time. Breathing out, I tap it and bite my nail to distract me.

_"Armie,"_

There's a sound, a clattering, as my phone slips facedown onto the desk. I can't seem to make my eyes blink or my lungs fill, but I can remember _him_ and his eyes and his smile and his voice and _fuck_. My hand are shaking so hard; I press them against my thighs and steady my breathing, eyes drifting back to the phone. _No, I can't do this now. I have to focus now._ My god, I can't breathe. It's been so fucking long, I have to close my eyes and count to ten. I stuff the phone in my desk and clear my throat, roll my shoulders, push it down.

 

I walk into my meeting with a smile and turn on the charm I'd learned over the years with a handshake and hello before shutting the door to our conference room.

 

 

 

"How'd it go?"

I'm still sitting in the conference room, staring out the windows. I turn and smile at Drew. "Fine. He's signed on for up to three in a series with a clause to revisit if he decides on more."

"Armie, that's great!"

"I know," I nod, allowing myself a moment of pride. Getting him to agree to publish his sequel with us was an easy deal, the one Cathleen wanted me to make. It was child's play, she'd said, only because of his loyalty to our firm. But a trilogy? That wasn't even on the table, not that we knew of anyway.

"Hey, what's going on with you?" My eyes feel a bit heavy suddenly, almost as if I need a nap.

"Nothin'."

"Then why are you still in here?" I heave out a sigh and roll my shoulders, glance away from him. I know it's no use.

"I got an email this morning that I'm avoiding."

"Hm. Well don't let Cathleen see you slacking off. It'll take away from your win," he says, turning to leave. It takes me another five minutes to get the strength up to leave and return to my desk. I get caught by Cathleen before I can look at my phone.

It's lunchtime before I get a chance to slow down and open the email, my heart racing and appetite gone when I finally do.

 

**TO: ahammer@gmail.com**

**FROM: timmytim27@yahoo.com**

**SUBJECT: RE: Hello Again…**

Armie,  

I don't use this email anymore and to be honest, it's a miracle I even saw this today. I have so much I want to say to you and ask you, but now I'm not sure where to begin. I think I just need to see you. I'm doing well and yes, I'm in the city. I have a play starting in a week so I'm pretty swamped right now, but if you want to catch up I'll find the time any day.

It's really good to hear from you and I'm so sorry I didn't reply sooner. I hope to hear back from you soon.

Sincerely,

Timothée Chalamet

 

 

I reread it and put my phone down, pick it up and read it again. My stomach is knots when I hit reply, my chest tightening in a way it hasn't in too long but is familiar somehow nevertheless. I should look him up and see if he's in anything big, if he's seeing someone. I resist the urge, telling myself it's better to just wait, I'd waited this long anyway, I could wait a few more days.

Days. _Days_. I could be seeing him in _days_. It's surreal to think, after all this time. His smile is days away. He's less than 10 miles from me _right now_ if he's in Manhattan and he _wants to see me_. I sit back in my chair and feel a smile forming. Timmy wants to see me. Or _Timothée_ , maybe he went by that now. I didn't care.

Even if it's not the same now, he's still the first man I ever loved. Seeing him again now feels like a return to who I was, an opportunity to have some closure with that part of my life that still tugs at my heart in more ways than one. I know I shouldn't pin so much hope on one encounter, but it's hard not to. He always had a keen ability to make me hopeful, and it seems that didn't fade with time.

I ride the high for the rest of the day, too keyed up to actually send a reply yet without sounding desperate. I wait until after I've successfully dodged my flirty neighbor while getting my mail and land safely in my apartment, the door closed, shoes toed off, laptop in hand as I walk over to the couch to settle in.

I reread his email and shake my head. God, I'd all but lost hope. He is so close, I knew he must have been close. I knew the ache in my bones couldn't have been for nothing. I hit _reply_ and smile to myself as I type, heart racing at the mere thought of him sitting down to read.

 

**TO: timmytim27@yahoo.com**

**FROM: ahammer@gmail.com**

**SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello Again…**

Timmy,

Or should I be calling you Timothée now? Is that what you'd prefer? Don't worry about it taking a while to reply—it was a longshot that you'd reply to begin with after all this time. I'm glad you reached out no matter how much time has passed. Also, I agree—there's too much to say to not see each other in person.

 I can take a long lunch break at work if that's best, or any time on the weekends or evenings. I realize those are likely the worst times for you if you're in a play.

Congratulations, by the way. I knew you'd make it.

Let me know. I may be able to get a morning off if I have a heads up.

Best,

Armie

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometime around chapter 4 or 5 of hammer lodge, I started realizing I was creating an AU where I would get to explore something I’ve been thinking about for months which is, what would IRL Armie be like if he’d met Timmy and Luca when he was younger and more impressionable, not yet set in his ways of masking himself? I’ve always wondered this, because regardless of whether or not anything ever has or ever will happen between A and T in reality, there is an undeniable change in Armie post cmbyn. And i wonder what would have happened if he’d had people around him who let him explore and be vulnerable all the time without question. And in a way, this fic creates that version of him.
> 
> Because if he meets Timmy in his youth, as he does in HL, then he’s got that love and undeniable acceptance going into adulthood, which changes everything. Suddenly these habits he has irl might not be accurate, things like building up walls or putting on masks or hiding behind this bravado to save face and emotional damage. He might actually lean into honesty sometimes because he had to pay a price for it. He might be more willing to be vulnerable because he knows how amazing it feels to let that kind of love and hope into his life, even if it doesn’t always work out the way you want it to. And he’d know his worth and what he’s willing to fight for.
> 
> Part of this fic is exploring that. And part of Armie’s growth was having to be separated from Timmy, because now he can look back and pinpoint the moment his life changed. And that moment is, and always will be, Timmy. No matter how much time they spent apart, no matter how many nights he missed him. It will always be Timmy that helped him grow and see his potential. And he needed that space to truly see and appreciate that.
> 
> Anyway, I love talking to yall in the comments. The reason I’m sharing this is because it came up in a convo in my comments for the first chapter, so seriously if yall wanna know things or have questions, go for it! I answer my comments :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long!!! I fell down an AU rabbit hole and tbh im still lost down there lol but i love this fic too much to stop writing it. So fear not! I'm hoping to have more regular updates with it like I did with HL :)

**TO: ahammer@gmail.com**

**FROM: timmytim27@yahoo.com**

**SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Hello Again…**

_Armie,_

_Saturday morning? I can make that work with my schedule._  

_I seem to remember you having some trouble pronouncing my name, so stick with Timmy._

_Timmy_

 

**TO: timmytim27@yahoo.com**

**FROM: ahammer@gmail.com**

**SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hello Again…**

_Timmy,_

_I seem to remember saying it just fine, thank you. Saturday, 10am? 9am? What schedules do actors keep these days?_

_Armie_

 

  
I send the email, my lips curling into a smile when I reread his earlier words. I know this is slippery, that the hope budding in my chest might not be justified. Still, I stare at our email chain and think there's no way I'm misreading this. There can't be. His reply appears around lunchtime, my papers being pushed to the side so I can focus on it, a smile ghosting my lips.

 

**TO: ahammer@gmail.com**

**FROM: timmytim27@yahoo.com**

**SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hello Again…**

_Armie,_

_As much as I hate to say it, 9am works better for me. I'll send you the name of a place. See you soon._

_Timothée (practice the pronunciation if you're so keen)_

 

 

"What's gotten into you?" I startle, look up to find Drew smirking, rolling a stress ball between his hands.

"I… nothing," I roll my eyes and minimize the email before clearing my throat. When I look back up at him, he looks way too curious for my liking.

"What's his name?"

"God, Drew—"

"Ah, it _is_ a guy."

"It's not a big deal," I tell him, holding my hands up in surrender.

"Is he prettier than me? Be honest," he smirks, leaning against my desk.

"Absolutely. Go away."

"Ouch! Alright, alright. I can take a hint."

"Can you?" He laughs and tosses the stress ball at me before walking away. There was a time where I thought we might be something, back during my first week. He flirted so much I thought he had to be into me, but he was engaged (to a woman, I might add) and I wasn't even sure _he_ knew if he was into guys. I'd been there, god had I, and I knew how intoxicating it could be to be around someone who didn't judge you for flirting. Because of his status, I didn't take it seriously, and neither of us ever pushed beyond occasional innocent comments. He's seen me struggle to date, though; this must be odd for him, my sudden shift in mood. I wonder what it would be like to actually talk about Timmy, to get to tell people this time around.  
If there _is_ a this time around. I have to believe there is, that this isn't another close call in my life, that he'll be there and I'll be there and we'll see each other and _know_. That it was all worth it, every day apart, for just one more together.

 

 

The week drags on and on.

I have to physically fight the urge to email him again; it's just been so long, and he's so close and I _know_ he'd reply. By Thursday, I've stooped so low that I'm searching every goddamn play in New York City during work hours before giving up the notion that I'm not _actually_ stalking him this way and type his name into google instead. When I find it, my heart stops. I've never heard of it, but he's the lead and it's gained so much traction that I feel a little dizzy. I click his name on another site and fall down a rabbit hole that doesn't release me until well into my lunch break.

He never finished college, but only because he was cast in some traveling show that went all over Europe where he built his base. When he returned, everyone wanted him. I stare at the premiere pictures, the fan photos from barricades, find an Instagram full of his signatures on various playbills. I find an interview where he says he probably won't break out into the film industry just because he likes the high of live performances so much, "but certainly I can't see my future any more than you can." He charms the goddamn pants off of everyone in every video I watch, his voice _completely_ destroying me. I feel eighteen again, god I feel even younger, I feel like I'm experiencing attraction for the first fucking time. He looks unbelievable, I'm not sure I'll survive this if he's single, if our connection is still there, if he _wants_ me. I'm not sure I'll survive it if he _doesn't_.

He's won a few awards over the years, those are my favorite videos. He's dressed in fancy suits and his eyes are so piercing that I'm fairly certain I'll get hard the second he looks at me in person because _fuck_ , did he always look like that? Had my memory managed to dull him?

It isn't until an email chimes from him reaffirming the time we'll meet with the name of a place, nothing else, that I come to my senses and snap out of it. I shoot back a confirmation and grab something to eat, my body too warm and self-aware of my surroundings when I return to my desk. I get a new manuscript to look through in the afternoon but can't really think about anything but his eyes in those goddamn photos. I can't even remember the last time I was so distracted by a guy that I couldn't work. Honestly, it might have been him back when we first met.

God, that thought sends me reeling for another hour, my mind _helpfully_ providing me with all the memories of our too-short time together, lingering on his eyes closed, lips swollen, the moments when he'd smile at me or tease me or make me blush, the moments when he'd take me apart, my limited memory only strong enough to make me dizzy and wanting.

I wonder if he still has my hoodies, my boxers?

I have to shut the thought down immediately and go out for a smoke, and I don't even smoke, not really, but there's a guy outside with an extra cigarette and a lighter and I need something to distract myself. He's going to fucking ruin me, I can feel it in my bones. I'm not sure I'm ready to see him, the day suddenly passing so quickly that I can't keep up, night approaching in the blink of an eye and I'm trying to figure out what to wear but it's no use. I stare at the ceiling until I pass out, but only get a few hours of sleep.

I run in the morning for an excuse to burn off some of the nerves I feel and wonder if he's out there somewhere already awake or if he's asleep. I wonder if he'll think of me today, if he'll be just as nervous as tomorrow approaches.

My shower is a cold one, just in case.

"You're way too keyed up, dude," Drew says at work in that casually curious way of his while straightening his tie. "You're going to give me an anxiety attack."

I have no answers for him and barely manage to stave off his questions about "that email guy" as he referred to Timmy. After lunch, he catches me in the break room downing a mug of stale coffee. "We're drinking tonight, no excuses."

"I can't—"

"No. Excuses. I'm not going to make it another day with you this weird."

"We have a coffee thing tomorrow," I point out, pouring the last of the coffee into my mug before starting a new batch with a tight smile at the PR girl staring at us whose name always stumped me. 

"A _coffee thing?_ With Email Guy?" I shrug and stare at the brewing coffee. "Dude, call it a date. For the love of god can we call it a date? Listen, trust me. You need to let off steam before you see him.”

We ended up in some shitty dive bar around the corner from our building and I was downing shots "because you need it" and smiling at the bartender to see if we could get them for free, out back smoking another cigarette before deciding it was about to be a habit if I finished it, snubbing it out with my foot, Drew laughing at me when I came back in looking "sad and horny," which I told him just wasn't fair.

I mean, it was true. But it wasn't fair to call me out in a bar where I felt eyes everywhere already.

"He's just so fucking cute," I remember saying, over and over again, Drew smirking at me the entire time. "And he was so nice, he was my best friend, Drew. God, he's so nice. And his _smile_ , Drew. His hair, he was so warm and nice and ticklish." He got me water and put me in a cab, humored my endless ramblings about Timmy without much objection. As I sobered up, I realized maybe this was his intention all along, to get me to let it out of my system so I would be less inclined to flail upon seeing Timmy tomorrow in the flesh. I can't be sure it really worked; the more I talk, the higher my anxiety rises over reuniting with him, the feeling meeting head on with my overeager desire to see him one more time, to reach out, touch him, hear him. 

And that's how it happened, how I end up vomiting in my bathroom and brushing my teeth multiple times just to get it out of my system the second regret seeps in, counting the hours until I would see him, staring at my terrible closet with my terrible clothes that he probably wouldn't even want to steal anymore and wondering if he had a boyfriend. I down two glasses of water and realize I’m being stupid worrying about things I can’t change.

I sink under all of my blankets, exhausted and consumed with memories of him, falling into daydreams that turn to real dreams, in and out of consciousness until finally, sleep overtakes me.

He once told me we'd find a way to make it work. It had been years, but maybe that still held true. Maybe, just maybe, we could finally make this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you're all VERY EAGER for the reunion. It happens in the next chapter, which will be a fair bit longer! I wanted to keep it in tact instead of leaving you with a cliffhanger of them seeing each other for the first time. Again, as always, come chat with me in comments! I've been slammed the past week and a half but i promise to be more prompt with replies this time :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had hopes of this going out a few days ago but this weekend was a genuine nightmare lol 
> 
> this has been so anticipated and honestly.... i hope it lives up to what you've all been imagining

My alarm clock pierces through the still of my studio apartment in the morning, the faintest streaks of light filtering in through my curtains. I manage to brew a pot of coffee with my eyes half closed before downing a glass of water and some aspirin. I assess the damage done; thank god I'm not that hungover, especially considering. It's more nerves than anything.

I get to see him today.

I'll probably get to hug him, pull him into my arms like I once did, feel his breath on my neck. I wonder if his mind ever wandered to me, and if so when, in the dead of night under the safety of silence and anonymity, or perhaps in the early hours of the morning when he evades consciousness, or was he bold, stealing away his thoughts of me in the midst of others, midday, unafraid and unapologetic?

I dress in a haze, stare at myself in the mirror for longer than necessary, but I can't help it. I look older, a fair bit older actually. I wonder if he would still look at me and see the person he once did or if I'd be a stranger now, a bit taller, more filled out, confidence in the place of uncertainty. My aftershave is different, would he mind? Would he bother to notice?

I don't really know how I make it out the door or even onto the subway; I only know that the tapping sound is coming from my fingers against the harsh metal pole, that my stop is fast approaching.

There's a fluttering sensation starting in my stomach and building out as I climb up the steps and walk onto the street, my hands starting to shake anxiously knowing I'm only a block away. I needed a game plan, I meant to make one, I swear I did, but somewhere along the line all that seemed to matter was the fact that I'd be seeing him and everything else was white noise but now I would need a plan, what would I say, what if it's awkward, what if he _is_ seeing someone and I shut down, then what? I turn the corner and start walking faster, the anxiety pushing me forward despite my instincts to run. God, I'm going to be sick. That would be the cherry on top, seeing him and finding out that he's seeing someone and I just fucking throw up, wouldn't that just—

My steps stutter, eyes blink fast.

The people around me jostle my body as they move forward, but there is only him, his dark curly hair, a maroon jacket zipped up in the mid-morning chill, his fidgety hands visible even from here as his eyes skirt along the street, up and down until he turns his body, his profile turning into a beautiful vision of his form facing me a dozen yards away, his eyes locking onto mine almost instantly.

My lungs fill for the first time in years.

I find some sort of power to move, my feet carrying me towards him as he stares. There's a moment that I think he might be just as affected as I am, a slight but beautiful moment when he glanced around him, looks back at me, shifts on his feet, and fixes his hair with a small but growing smile. "Armie," he says, _Armie_ , Armie, my voice is stuck as it repeats in my mind over and over again. "Oh my god," he laughs softly, that fucking laugh—how could I have forgotten his _laugh?_ I feel my eyes sting, god I could _not_ cry.

"Hi," I manage, sniffling with a smile as I awkwardly stuff my hands into my pockets as I stand before him, all goals of playing it cool out the window already as I know how I must be looking at him.

"Come here—" And I'm in his arms, my own looping over his shoulders and back as his hands press against my spine, his curls at the perfect level for me to lean against. He smells like home, like warmth and memories and something almost smooth like vanilla but not quite and I don't want him to move, ever. "God, it's been too long," he mumbles, fingers tightening in my shirt, the sensation sending me back in time with a shiver that makes him chuckle.

"I missed you," I say, because it's true, because apparently I am still incapable of lying to him.

"Hmm, yeah," he hums, pulling away from me. He smiles at me and bites his lip like I remember, straightens his clothes as my arms drop. "I missed you, too."

He is stunning.

His eyes are far more dynamic than my memory could preserve or even the pictures of him could capture, his hair just a little longer but more styled, his jaw line and cheekbones more defined. I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers over the lines, to feel the angles of his features. He's taller, but so am I, our proportions about the same after all this time, a familiar touch to the newness of the freckles I didn't quite remember or the softness that appears when he tilts his head and disappears into breathtaking sharpness when the light hits.

"You're staring, are you okay?" he smirks, knowing exactly what it is I am admiring. Still, I blush.

"Leave me alone," I chuckle, running a hand through my hair, noticing his eyes follow. "Somehow you’re even more attractive, give me a break." I go for lightness, using the humor I'd learned since we'd met, the humor I'd learned from him. His eyebrows lift and he sways slightly as his smirk turns into a smile that makes my stomach flutter. His eyes visibly skate down my body and I feel warm, hot even, his gaze igniting something I didn't realize was dormant until this moment in time.

"You're not so bad yourself," he says, his lip catching between his teeth momentarily before he lifts a hand to touch the hem of my shirt. My entire body reacts, my stomach muscles clenching in anticipation for a touch I never actually feel. "You're doing the complimenting this time, that's new," he adds quietly. My jaw falls a bit. It's been so long since I'd worried about that, thought about it even. A memory of him floods me suddenly, his voice soft as he danced around the topic of sexuality so as not to scare me off. How I'd wanted to say everything, _be_ everything, in that moment. With him. God, he'd been a stranger then, he was practically a stranger now.

He's right. This is new for him, my flippancy with flirting, complimenting. To look, and to look _in public_ no less. So much about me would be new—would he even recognize me really?

I look down at his hand on my shirt with only enough time to see him release me. "I guess we have a lot of catch up on," I say softly before looking up.

"I guess so," he nods, his lips curling up at the edges, eyes sparkling. I watch him tilt his head towards the coffee shop before turning to walk inside, holding the door for me. As I pass, his eyes pierce into me.

I know this will be it for me. Seeing him and it feeling this way after all this time, I know enough now to know that this is not typical. This is not easily explained, our connection. And if he is taken, I will wait. And if he's not interested, I will remind him of why he once was.

I feel his body heat next to me in line and find it difficult to resist the urge to touch him. I'd spent so many years of my life afraid to reach out that I'd begun overcompensating when I finally allowed myself to find comfort in men. Every time I placed a hand on someone's back, every brush of fingertips against skin, the moments when I'd bump shoulders or hips or pull hands into my hold—it all began with him that week and blossomed in the years since. I crave it endlessly, his touch, his comfort. I hesitate, though, afraid to push this. I need it to work and rushing it feels wrong. He was worth waiting for, I could wait a little longer.

His eyes are on the board above the counter when I look at him, but he's smirking, almost as if he knows how badly I want to feel his fingers between my own. There's a subtle moment where his gaze flicks over to me, just to acknowledge my staring, before he looks ahead. It makes me smile, his awareness of me. A single look from him and I already feel more electrified than I have in a long time.

 

I never knew his coffee order before, I realize. He gets a latte and I can't explain why it makes me grin, not even when he looks at me, amused, and asks what the smile is for while we wait. We sit at a table near the window because he walked there and I could only follow, his jacket unzipping and discarded on the back of his chair as I try not to stare at the white t-shirt doing its best to fall off his shoulders and drive me mad. Our long legs tangle awkwardly underneath the table for a moment before he sighs and shifts, allows them to touch, a small smile on his lips as we finally find a comfortable position. Fuck, he's so beautiful; the noise of the coffee shop fades out so it's just him, his fingers lightly tapping against his cup as he glances up at me from under his eyelashes like he knows I can't think clearly anymore, his arms dotted with miscellaneous freckles leading up to the loose fabric around his biceps and disappearing.

"You still do that thing," he murmurs, a hand reaching out to brush against my cheekbone before dropping with a tentative smirk.

"What thing?"

"The zoning out thing."

"No I don't," I laugh, cheeks blushing as I look down. I don’t blush this much, is all I can think. Why am I blushing this much? _Calm down._

"Yes, you do. You _just_ did it. God, you know you did that when I first saw you? I smiled at you but you just stood there and I thought maybe I shouldn’t have but then your dad had so much trouble getting your attention…You were hands down the hottest guy I'd ever seen," he laughs. I watch as he pushes his hair behind his ear with a few thin fingers. He held me once and compared our hands, lined each of our fingers up against each other and pressed them both against his chest. I can practically feel the warm cotton of his wrinkled shirt, the smell of hot chocolate on his breath and snow on his neck. "Fuck, there you go again."

"Huh?"

"Am I really that distracting, even now?" He looks amused, his eyes almost squinting as he tries not to smile, a flush on his cheeks that catches my eyes. A sensation runs over my back under his gaze.

"Yes," I answer honestly, knowing my only shot with him here is to just be honest. "I can't help it. It's like my memories are all around us. I'm drowning."

"Oh my god," he breathes, leaning forward. "Did you become a writer after all?"

"No," I laugh, thankful for the slight break in tension I feel under his watchful eyes. "No, I'm an editor."

"Ah, good for you," he nods, leaning back. His hands close around his cup as he brings it to his lips. I do the same, my mouth suddenly dry. His eyes dance around the coffee shop with a quiet hum, his leg bumping mine. I can't tell if it's an accident, _please don't be an accident_. "I should be honest with you," he says.

The coffee goes cold in my mouth as I swallow. The baristas laugh at something as the smell of fresh espresso pours into the place with a wave of new customers who wait nearby for their coffee, eyes down, oblivious to Timmy's words, to the hundreds of possibilities consuming me in this moment as he shifts and folds his arms in front of him with a small smile. Please, god. Do not be taken.

"You look worried, don't be worried," he says softly, head rolling to the side. He looks down and it takes every inch of my self-control not to reach over and push his hair back. Almost as if on cue, he looks up with a smile, tucking the strands back. "It's just that, well I knew you were an editor. I knew you were in New York, actually."

" _What_?"

"I sort of… kept tabs. For a while." I stare at him, my heart clenching up when he bites at his lip and clears his throat, when he reaches down for his drink before taking a sip. "I went through a bad break up awhile back and um. Yeah. A few months ago. My buddy took me out and I sort of drunkenly started googling you after I remembered your number changed. You're surprisingly hard to find on social media, did you know that? Almost emailed you when I found your contact info actually, but he talked me down before you got an embarrassing display to your work email. I feel like an idiot because if I'd just checked my old email then… anyway."

"Oh." My heart starts racing. I feel as though he's just revealed far more than he realizes, or maybe he realizes and doesn’t care that I now know he's probably single, that he thinks about me when he drinks, when he's lonely. That he really did miss me.

Fuck, it should make me happy to know he thought of me, but all I can think about is him googling me in the middle of the night with a blanket around his shoulders—the thought that he might have been hurting all this time in the same aching way as me would bring me to my knees if I wasn't already sitting.

"Armie?"

"Yeah, sorry. I um… I don't really use facebook and everything else is private, so…" I'm still reeling from this, lost in the possibility of him seeking me out when he was heartbroken. Fuck _, fuck_ , I missed him so much. I missed this, missed his honesty, his quiet confidence holding me steady, his way of pulling me out of my own head. God, how did I live? How did I walk through my life without him for a single day? His eyes soften and he looks down at his coffee and for the first time I notice that his hands are shaking. This can't be easy for him either, and I start going over what I know until the only truth I'm left with is he struggled just as much without me. I want to reach out, bridge this gap between us somehow, show him he isn't alone, that I felt every second, too. I need him to smile, to stop looking worried. Fuck, I can't take it. "Look. It's okay, honestly don't worry about it. I looked you up, too," I say, forcing a smile.

"Oh god." His eyes go wide but he smiles again and I feel lighter.

"Yeah, so about that play you're doing…" I roll my shoulders and try to relax, to let myself enjoy the way he covers part of his face with his hand, his eyes and mouth squinting upwards in embarrassment. "You're a big deal."

"I am _not_."

"You are, you have fanpages."

"You looked at my fanpages?" he laughs, biting his lip. Warmth spreads through me and I feel a little more like myself.

"Only long enough to see they existed," I tell him, afraid to come off too strong.

"Oh Lord," he laughs again, shaking his hair into his eyes before covering his face. "It's so weird, you know? Because no one actually recognizes me, they only do at stage doors. So I forget."

"You forget you're famous?" I smile and watch him tuck his hair back and take a long drink of his cooling latte.

"I'm not _famous_ , shush." When he looks up, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes shining. If it weren't for the smell of caramel and coffee beans and fresh pastries I'd think we were back at the lodge, his eyes undoing me.

"Can I see you?" His mouth twitches, eyebrows scrunching together in question. "The play, I mean."

"If you want to," he nods. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," I tell him. I hold his eyes and try to refrain from saying more, from telling him that I feel guilty that I wasn't there for his first opening night like I once promised, that all these people have seen a side of him I never did, that I used to dream about showing up one day to one of his shows and seeing him and he'd kiss me…

"Okay, I'll have them save you a ticket," he says. His smile is soft, familiar, gentle like it used to be when he'd tell me he loved me.

I clear my throat and look down, drink a significant amount of my coffee for something to do to distract from the intensity of his attention.

"I still make you nervous?"

I laugh, my hands covering my face as I try to will the blush I know is creeping up from sticking to my skin. "Yes."

"Is it good nervous?" My hands drop, the blood in my veins starting to warm, my mind drowning in memories of him. I can't speak, too lost in the day he told me I made him just as nervous, the day he held me in his arms and kissed me, the night when he slept with me. "Armie," he breathes, and it takes a moment for my body to realize it's not my memory, but him, who says it.

"I really missed you," I say, because I can't quite think of anything else that could possibly explain what I'm feeling, this deep sense of nostalgia and regret, of love. My pulse jumps when his hand moves to cover mine briefly, a subtle reminder of the connection we once had, and a solid affirmation that it still exists. In some way, on some level, this still exists between us.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it aint over yet folks....i told you, this meeting is a long one


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW IT'S BEEN LIKE TWO MONTHS. Thank yall so much for your kind words and patience with me. I'm back and hoping to start having more regular updates of this fic that's brought us together. Thank you for your incredible comments <3 hearing from all of you makes this so worth everything. I will never stop being impressed by how any people have felt impacted by my writing. THANK YOU for being the voice in the back of my head telling me to keep writing. Yall rock.

When we leave the coffee shop, he lingers closer to me, his body nearly swaying with our steps, fingers brushing. He tells me about the last family vacation they took to France a few years ago when his sister nearly convinced him to get a tattoo in Paris. There's something about the way he moves that pulls me, his tilting head, fluttering lashes, that smile that takes on a life of its own through the story. He could say anything and I'd hang on every word helpless and hopeless and hope _ful_ for what my heart feels watching him.

He catches me staring and grins, nudges my shoulder. I like the weight of him more than I ought to, his soft yet solid collision against my side oddly comforting. "Next time you should come," he says nonchalantly. I stare, wide eyes, and he just grins. Grins and grins, his tongue pressing against his teeth, eyes shining bright. "What?"

"Okay," I nod quickly. "If you're serious." I'm not sure he is, but fuck if my heart isn't racing. He's goddamn intoxicating.

"Good," he mumbles, looking down at the sidewalk as we continue walking, his eyes still oozing the same affection I didn’t think I was even capable of feeling. This is good, this has to be a sign. He is overjoyed as I am overwhelmed, his memories seeking me as much as mine have sought him. I want him everywhere, in everything, and I can only hope he wants the same. "You never got to meet Pauline after all," he says quietly.

"Your sister." He hums instead of speaking, but I don't mind.

"She always liked you, you know. She liked that I found you." I look over and find him smiling softly ahead, lip tucked between his teeth. Those eyes of his dart over to me before falling back on strangers, crinkles appearing near his gaze.

"I didn't know that."

"She thought you were good for me," he nods. "I tried calling you, you know." I glance over at him, his eyes still straight ahead. "Even after everything. I tried calling when I was in Europe that summer, I don't know. I thought maybe it would be fine."

"They looked at my phone records," I tell him, but he knew that.

"I know." I smile to myself. "But I still hoped. I don't know what happened, it went to voicemail and I just missed you so much that I left one."

"I had no idea," I mumble, looking at him with aching bones.

"Your dad called me." I stop. He turns to look at me and pulls me from the walking traffic.

"Did he threaten you?" My voice is tense but I don’t care, I want him to know I don’t approve of this at all, would _never_ have approved of this.

"No, _no_. Well, not technically. I think he knew he couldn't stop us from talking, to be honest. I think it scared him that I was still trying after months of them trying to keep us apart."

"But it worked, you—" I stop myself before I slip up, let the sadness I felt that summer and fall take over. _You stopped trying_.

"He didn't threaten me, Armie," he says, reaching out to touch my arm. My lungs collapse when it sinks in. Of course he didn't threaten him. Of fucking course the moment he realized we really were in love he'd use me against him. "He told me you'd chosen to go to school in California, which I knew. He said you accepted his money in exchange for not talking to me, that the second you moved he'd support you if we lost contact. He told me how much everything cost for you and explained what it would take for you to support yourself. He said he could make things difficult for you. He was angry, you must have just gotten into a fight."

"Jesus Christ."

"I knew it was kind of bullshit because we _had_ been talking even if… not for a while…and I knew that you didn't want his money… but—I knew we were looking at a long distance relationship long term, and I _knew_ you were going to destroy your relationship with them if we did and… I couldn't justify you ruining your life."

"It wouldn't have been ruined," I tell him. My hands reach out, grip his arms. "Timmy—"

"I know, I know that _now_. But I was thousands of miles away and it was getting really hard to stay in touch and I _knew_ it was going to be worse when we started classes and got busy and I could see it falling apart just because of circumstance and if I could _at least_ try to preserve your relationship with your family—"

"God damnit that wasn't your choice to make alone!"

"I know!" He nods quickly, smooths his hands over my shoulders at my outburst, panicked pain in his own eyes. My tone even surprises me, but my heart is falling to pieces all over again and I can't stop it. _"I know, Armie_. But I didn't want you to start resenting me later on and the more he talked the more convinced I was you would... I know you say it didn't matter but family does matter and I _know_ they mattered to you and… Armie, you never would have let me walk away if you knew that was my reason. You would have given them up for something we couldn't guarantee. We both know that. And just because we're here now, I mean fuck, Armie. We could have been on completely different fields, you know? We could have stayed together and it not worked out and then you'd have _no one_ , and I couldn't… I just couldn't."

"I needed you," I mutter, looking away from him to stop seeing his reddening eyes.

"Not at that point, you were so fucking strong at that point. You wanted me, there's a difference."

"I _always_ need you." He sighs. I can't look at him, I know I'll either lose control of my emotions or kiss him if I do, and I'm not sure either is productive right now when I can barely breathe.

"It was a mistake to push you away, but I was young and I thought I was doing the right thing—I couldn't see the future. But I didn't want to be the reason your family disowned you, Armie."

"Okay," I nod, still staring at the street.

"I knew what I'd cost you. And I know you'll say it was worth it and I know you'll mean it and you'll probably be right but at the time I just couldn’t keep doing that. You just kept bleeding out because of us."

"Because we were worth fighting for," I say. I know I sound bitter and I really don’t mean to because _I'm not_ bitter, not with him. His face falls, his brows scrunched up. His lips form around something, his sigh almost sounding like a faint _baby_ , my heart lurching in my chest as he steps forward and wraps his arms around my neck to pull me into a hug. _I'm sorry_ , he murmurs into my ear, over and over again as I press my face against his neck.

He smells warm, his hands in my hair sending shivers over me as our hearts beat between our chests. It's not enough, he's so close and if I close my eyes I can almost pretend we didn’t lose time, that he's just been in my arms for years holding me close. I don't know how long we stand there, time frozen around us as we relearn the way our hearts beat in time together. He pulls away first and I try not to read into it because he takes my hand in his when we continue walking. He asks me if I have any plans during the day and smiles when I tell him _no._ I'm still hurt, but the set of his brow tells me he is, too. He'd been trying to protect me and hurt himself in the process, that much I understand.

For a few blocks, I am content to allow him to lead me around his city without question, knowing we need time to recover and gather our thoughts. His hand tightens in mine when we need to turn corners or if someone gets too close and my spine tingles every time. His other hand lifts to run over my forearm at one point, almost as if it's a second thought, his eyes not even lifting to mine when I look over. I want to know everyone he's held hands with since me, which one of them he gained this soft confidence from that allowed him to be unnecessarily affectionate in public.

Then again, he always was affectionate and promised one day he would hold my hand here because no one would care. Maybe this was just him, maybe I need to stop wondering about everyone who's gotten to experience this in my absence.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, my eyes narrowing the closer we get to Time Square, the sidewalks growing unbearably crowded. He smiles at me and shrugs, his lip drawn up between his teeth. "You're not going to tell me," I guess, smiling back. He shakes his head and tugs on my hand so we can turn.

And then it clicks.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye when he shifts his shoulders, a smile ghosting his lips as he keeps his head down. This is his element, not mine, and even in the daylight it's clear he feels more comfortable here than I ever will. "This one," he says, nodding towards a door.

"Am I allowed to be here?" I ask as he swipes a card and opens the theater door. His smirk when he turns to hold it open with his back is radiant, challenging, and I find myself desperately hoping this isn't just him being nice. That he is doing this deliberately. That he _wants_ his wandering eyes to register in my blood stream as desire. Because despite our complicated past, the only future I want is _with_ him.

"Baby, you look like you belong here," he says, winking as he pushes off, turns, and walks through the small hallway expecting that I follow.

God, he is so sexy. Even more so then my memory ever would have been able to capture because this, this is _new_ , it's Timmy but he's so _new_.

I follow him because I know I have no other options; I'd follow him anywhere. He says hello to a few stagehands who seem to melt on impact (not that I could blame them) as we walk towards what I assume is his dressing room. The second the door opens, the air rushes out of my lungs.

He lets me walk in first. I don't hear the door click shut but I know it must when I turn and see him leaning against it. "So this is home for the foreseeable future," he tells me. "I basically live here. Not _really_ but…"

"Cozy," I say, hands reaching out to touch either side of the walls before dropping them to my sides. It's too small to contain the emotional tension I suddenly feel building between us in the wake of our earlier conversation and current proximity. He smiles and nods a little before walking over to me. No, not to me, not exactly. He grips my arm as he passes and goes to rifle through his things in a little side table. I try not to stare at his ass.

Admittedly, I never was very good at _not_ staring.

"Ah, here," he mumbles, turning over his shoulder. I feel my cheeks redden but I don't look away; he chuckles and I know I've been caught. "How are you even _less_ subtle now?"

"I don't fucking know," I laugh, because laughing seems to be the only option when I've repeatedly been caught by him and he still hasn't done anything to really validate my actions. If I don't laugh, I'll burst with the nervous energy stockpiling in my body with every passing moment where I don't know what this is.

"Your confidence hasn't killed that blush of yours," he muses as he stands to walk over to me. I am trapped under his eyes, my heart slamming against my ribs with complete disregard for how loud it is. "That's good."

"Good?"

"I always thought it was cute," he shrugs.

" _Cute_." His smile turns to a smirk and he shrugs again when he notices my narrowed eyes. I notice the piece of paper in his hand suddenly and want to reach for it, my curiosity running free.

"Go ahead," he says, extending it. So he can still read me like an open book, good to know. My eyes scan the paper quickly before my heart stops. I glance up at him. He stays quiet, almost withdrawn, the sight unfamiliar to me. The levity we'd built up on our walk dissipates in an instant.

"Read," he whispers.

"I don't need to." My voice is barely above a breath but I know he can hear it. "Timmy, why—" I can't find my words.

"So my first opening night, I was freaking out." I watch as he moves towards the little cot to sit down. I find my legs take me there as well, my body numbing slightly at the story already. "I was so fucking nervous and there was this moment where Pauline was trying to calm me down because if I didn’t, there's no way I would have been able to go on. She was trying to ground me and something she said reminded me of that email you sent from graduation and…"

He reaches out to take it from my hands, smooths the edges out on his lap. "I read it like three times before going out there and it calmed me right down. It was almost… This is going to sound cheesy, but it was almost as if you were there calming me down yourself. I printed it out for my next show, it goes with me from theatre to theatre. I never let go of you, Armie."

I look back down at the words I wrote him and try to settle my heart down. "I tried calling you the next day, you know."

"What?" I look up at him.

"Your number changed. I guess when you moved?"

"I lost my phone," I nod. "It was after we… lost touch. I lost your number and I thought about emailing you but…"

"You thought I didn't want you to," he guesses, lips turned down. I nod to avoid voicing it. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"It's alright. It had been awhile at that point. And now I know why you pushed back."

"I didn’t want to. I was _so_ in love with you back then."

_Was._

My already shot nerves stagger and sputter away like they've been doused with ice water. I take a steadying breath and nod, my eyes dropping down to my feet. It's okay. I knew it was possible. I knew it was _probable_. Was in love, that's okay. It's okay. It didn't mean this couldn't happen between us again.

"Armie?"

"Yeah, I, um…" In through the nose, out through the mouth. I look up at him and shake it off. "I'm glad the email helps."

"Are you alright?" His hand connects with my leg and I feel like I might drift off if not for that weight.

"No," I smile awkwardly. "This is a lot, I need a minute." His eyes widen and he nods, but leaves his hand on my leg. I focus on it, the warmth spreading from his touch. It's just because he was my first everything important, that's the reason I still react so much to him. It's because he's held up in my mind as a standard, that's all. His thumb rubs across my leg and I have to fight tears as I lean back against the wall. And maybe it's my own fault, really, that I'd built this up in my mind again, let myself hope that we'd fall back into this like nothing ever happened. Maybe I was naïve and somehow misread this all. I didn't even _realize_ I'd built my hopes up until now, though. "Fuck." I don't mean for it to slip out, and cringe knowing he can probably see it all over my face.

"Armie, talk to me."

"It's nothing, I swear," I tell him, retreating.

" _Please_." I look at him and steady my breathing. It's not that hard, I'd learned how to handle it over the years.

"It's just because I missed you," I tell him, running a hand through my hair. "I'm having an out of body experience or something." I know he's hesitant to buy it, but I can also see that he knows not to prod. Not right now, anyways. I needed to build up to a conversation about this. I thought it would be fine, but seeing him again is making me realize just how badly I wanted this again, and if I brought it up before he was ready to talk about it, I would risk losing my chance. And if anything would kill me, that would be it.

"You can tell me, whenever you're ready. I'm here for you," he says softly. And I fucking fall all over again, his kind eyes and small nod to reaffirm his words, his hand soothing circles over my leg before moving to squeeze my hand briefly. He is still the best person I know, after all this time. God, _please_ let this anxiety be in my head, let him want me back.

There's a knock at his door and he sighs before rising up to answer it. "Ah, I heard you were here, listen—" I tune it out, seeing the woman has a clipboard and a walking talkie in hand, a messenger bag thrown over her shoulder. It's something about rehearsal probably, nothing I needed to worry about. I lose myself to a daydream where I kissed him when I saw him in front of the coffee shop instead of hugging him. Maybe then I'd know for sure how mutual this is. He's in front of me suddenly, a small smile on his face as he leans down to ruffle my hair.

"You good?" he asks, voice soft. I nod and avoid looking at his lips. Self-preservation is key, and staring will drown me. "Look, my rehearsal starts pretty soon—"

"Right, shit. I guess we lost track of time," I say, standing quickly. I straighten my clothes and turn towards the door before he stops me with his hands on my shoulders.

"Wait," he laughs. "God, you're… Just hang on a second." I nod and look at him, shift on my feet a bit. He softens and I can tell he's trying to figure out if I'm really okay. His hands smooth down my arms and slip into loose grips with my own. I take a deep breath and squeeze his hands, my body igniting despite the warring emotions inside of me. _This had to be a sign_. He wouldn't just hold my hands if he didn't still care. "I want to see you again," he tells me. Another sign, I think. I don’t fight my smile when it comes, nor do I particularly try to hide the shiver I feel when his thumb swipes over my hand. I return the gesture and smile when he bites his lip in return.

So maybe I overreacted. Maybe he didn't mean _was in love_ as in _not anymore_ , maybe he still feels this. I look at the facts. His hands had been on me for most of our time together, he was looking at me in a way that couldn't possibly be platonic, right?

"Me too," I nod, not wanting to leave him hanging too long. "Let me get your number, though." He hands me his phone with a smile and I put mine in, text myself, look back up. "It was—"

"I really—" We laugh, and I watch him bite his lip at the same time I scratch the back of my neck.

"It was so good to see you again," I tell him, trying to put all the emotion I feel into the little words that can't possibly be enough.

"Yeah," he breathes, nodding quickly. "I'm sorry for getting heavy, but I just have a lot I want to say, you know?" I nod and squeeze his hands. God, I love his hands. "Man, I needed this. I'll see you _soon_ , okay? Dinner this week?"

"Okay," I smile, my heart fluttering at the thought. I had to be overreacting. He wanted this. He had to. There was just as much affection in his eyes as I felt.

He walks me out and hugs me before opening the stagedoor, his fingers tightening in my shirt. I could live and die in his arms like this, his head against my shoulder, hair brushing against my neck.

For maybe the first time since moving to the city, I find that I navigate my way home without so much as a second thought.

 

 

* * *

 

Armie's Email:  

>  
> 
> _Timmy,_
> 
> _I wish I could be there today to see you! Please PLEASE take pictures and send them to me. You deserve the whole fucking world and I am so proud of you for getting into the study abroad program. Europe is going to be amazing and I can't wait to see you when you get back. You have so much talent and I know anyone who meets you is going to love you instantly. I know you're nervous, but you have this. You were_ made _for this, Timmy. I can't wait for the world to love you as much as I do._
> 
> _Your future is so bright it's blinding baby. Today is just the start, not an end. We start the rest of our lives now. I'm so fucking happy I met you, Tim. You're the best person I know._
> 
> _Don't be nervous!!!! Just go kill it. I'll see you on the other side._
> 
> _Love you._
> 
> _-Armie_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just know that this is a huuuuge chapter in terms of what happens. I'm trying really hard here to capture that sort of anxious excitement that comes with realizing you're with someone who could really BE someone to you, and the second guessing that sometimes comes with that. They're not done talking about their time apart, and both are holding onto some pain from that separation because walking away from each other did damage to them both, even if it helped the grow separately as individuals. You'll see this play out a little in some of their upcoming convos. Just know that this is their first steps to acknowledging that they have something that makes putting in the effort worth it.


	6. Chapter 6

_< Timmy: so dinner…>_

_< Timmy: I have Wednesday night off?>_

I stare at my phone, his words staring back at me. Dinner, where would I even take him, would he want to choose the place? Would he let me pay or is that too obvious?

Oh fuck, is this a date or not? That effects everything but I can't just fucking ask him because what if the answer is no?

_< Armie: Perfect. Have any place in mind?> _

I pace the length of my apartment. He touched me _a lot_ —this is probably a date. I should assume it's a date. But he did say he _was_ in love – 

Why does he make me a fucking teenager?

_< Timmy: Don't worry about it ;) > _

_< Timmy: 7? > _

I stare at my phone, my steps slowing until I'm standing still in the middle of my tiny kitchen. This is a date. It _has_ to be. A fucking winky face? It's a date, he wants to go on a date. Should I clean the apartment? Is that presumptuous? I can't remember the last time I went on a date I actually cared about.

I tell him 7 is fine and tap the phone against my leg for a minute, contemplating the pros and cons of texting him again. It was pretty late—I usually pass out by now, but I'd been too keyed up all day on our meeting to sleep.

_< Armie: How was rehearsal?> _

I stare at it and hold my breath, let the air out of my lungs with a smile when the three dots appear.

_< Timmy: Good got asked about you. you've got some fans in our crew…. something about that tall god look you've got going on I guess > _

The air sputters out of my lungs and I laugh, my heart beating quickly.

_< Armie: you guess > _

_< Timmy: :) > _

_Fuck_ , this isn't in my head, it can't be. At the very least he was still attracted to me as much as I was to him, that would explain the touches today, the casual intimacy that started to come back to us even in just a small dose. I wonder if it'll be more intense at dinner, if it'll build and we'll have to talk about it. I want to talk about it, talking might lead to action and _fuck_ if I didn't want that. My 18-year-old brain could only preserve so much from our night together beyond the feeling of overwhelmingly heady sensation, but it was enough to make everything else fail to compare.

I get ready for bed in a haze, checking my phone every couple of minutes to see if he's texted me again. I take a shower to clear my mind and lose fifteen minutes alone remembering the feel of his hand on my leg, my face warming when I realize how futile it is to think about him and not get hard.

He is more beautiful than I could have imagined he'd be at this point. Everything about him called me in more now than even back then. I wonder if that confidence of his translated into his sex life, if he'd be more dominant now than he'd been with me, or if he'd only be mouthy until he was pressed against a mattress, a couch, a wall, anything really, and then offer himself up. I groan, give up, my hand gripping myself tightly as I brace myself with the other, the water falling over my shoulders. I wonder if he's ever had sex in a shower and find it difficult to stand upright.

The way he'd said my name— had he gotten off to the thought of me over the years? Had he wondered where I was, whose bed I'd been in? My hand tightens around my dick and I try to refocus my thoughts, my eyes slipping shut as I shudder under a wave of too-hot water pours over me.

I think about him at the stage door, his smirk as he leaned against it, his _Baby_ when he looked up at me from under his lashes—I’m closer than I should be at the mere thought of him calling me baby after all this time, his smirks and his confession that he likes it when I get flustered, how he seemed to be pushing me a little today to watch it happen, how he leaned against his dressing room door and watched me examine his room.

I come with a groan, body falling against the cool tiling of my shower, mouth dry. I feel guilty for a moment before shaking it off and cleaning up, knowing he'd probably just smirk if he knew anyway. He smirked more this time then he did when we were younger and I want to know why, if it's just a tick of his now or if he was just smug seeing how affected I still was.

It could be either.

I fall asleep thinking of him and wake up wanting to text him—but resist. I spend an extra hour at the gym to keep my mind busy, go grocery shopping, anything to stop thinking about him.

_< Timmy: I was thinking about my play. Did you want to come opening weekend? I need to know soon if so.>_

_< Timmy: Or not, no pressure! > _

The texts are there waiting for me when I lose self-control finally and check, my heart sinking in my chest at the gap in time between him sending them when he must have misinterpreted my silence. My hands shake as I type out a response.

_< Armie: Phone on silent, busy day. If you don't mind, I'd like to be there opening night?>_

_< Timmy: Yeah?? Okay! I'll save a ticket> _

My heart stops at his quick reply, but only for a moment and then it's off like a rocket, the smile on my face impossible to stop, fucking butterflies in my chest like I'm twelve years old. I send him a smiley face emoji before thinking better of it and stare at his texts, the promise of finally seeing an opening night of his, of his genuine and apparent excitement. It occurs to me that under it all, he is still that boy that shied up under my hands, his confidence really just him being even _more comfortable_ with himself, with revealing himself, with showing you when he's overwhelmed just as easily as when he's happy or in control.

He taught me that in our youth, a lesson I still struggled with but felt defined by nevertheless. I can't imagine a world where I'd be honest with myself and others so willingly had I not met him when I did. Everyone I'd been with since him, every confession and first kiss, they were all because of his influence, showing me it was alright to feel and love and learn. All in the hope that one day it would lead back to him.

 

 

 

I don't make it three steps in the office before Drew is at my side, a mug in hand full of coffee. "We have twenty minutes before the staff meeting, what happened, how did it go?"

"Jesus," I laugh, sipping at the coffee before tossing my bag on my desk. "Nothing happened."

"Oh, come on." I sit down and take a deliberate sip from my coffee, smirking over the rim. "Oh my god, was it _that_ good?"

"No, shut up," I roll my eyes and kick his leg when he tries sitting on my desk.

"Dude come on. Let me live vicariously." I raise an eyebrow at the implication, and he huffs. "Not that way, asshat."

"It was…nice," I say, but I can feel the corners of my lips curling up and know he won't stop asking. "We got coffee, he took me to the theatre his play is at… it was nice."

"Oh right, fuck I forgot you said he was an actor. Okay, so…" He looks expectant and I feel my cheeks warm.

"So, nothing. There was a moment, but… I don't know. It might not be anything, Drew." He doesn't seem terribly pleased. "But we're getting dinner Wednesday." This is better news to him, I assume.

"Is this the part where you ask if I'll cover for you in case we're asked to stay late?" I smile and shrug, take another sip of my coffee. "Fine. But only because you need to get laid," he rolls his eyes.

"Thank you," I draw out, smiling as sweetly as I can. He can be a bit of a pushover, that's his biggest downfall. He'll cave to anyone if they smile and play into his flirtatious side. I tried not to take advantage, but sometimes it was useful.

The rest of the day passes quickly, but the night is slow. Tuesday is a lot of the same until Timmy texts me the name of an unfamiliar restaurant in the West Village I have to look up to know what kind of cuisine they even serve. It looks good, a cozy Italian place that sends me reeling at the prospect of sitting at a tiny table with Timmy and a bottle of wine. It looks warm, very Timmy, and it makes me smile for the rest of the day.

Before falling asleep, I think about his smile, how it hasn't changed at all, and find hope in the possibility of tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I KNOW IT'S SHORT!! But I'm updating again before the weekend at least once! If it went any longer, that bleeds into dinner territory and lemme tell you that sucker is enough words as is. 
> 
> If yall haven't read An Ode to a Soft Boi you NEED TO. It features Ode!Timmy and coincidentally the text thing in that fic aligns so perfectly with Armie not texting back immediately in this fic. LockLove clearly has hive mind bc she didn't know about this update beforehand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go listen to Favorite Colour by Carly Ray Jepsen (it's the Ch. 7/Ch.8 mood tbh)
> 
> Restaurant note: Cotenna. Use this as reference, it's how I decided on the place: https://foursquare.com/v/cotenna/543075b3498e283e38ad9dec?openPhotoId=55e289d7498e916ee918a536

I change my clothes for the third time, glance at the clock, tap the edges of my closet door. Maybe I should just change after work. Trying to find a cross between work appropriate and casual-maybe-date appropriate felt like a test I didn't study for.

I settle on fitted navy slacks, a pale blue button up, and patterned tie I can take off later. It still feels too formal; though it fits well, and it might tip the scale in my favor towards a _date_ as opposed to a casual-catch-up dinner.

Throughout the day, I focus on work and resist the urge to text Timmy too much.  Around lunch, I cave while scanning a document for an upcoming meeting.

_< Armie: If I show up tonight in what I wore to work, how much will you judge me?>_

I take a bite of my sandwich and sort through the emails I've gotten in the past hour, replying to those I know can't wait before turning back to my phone at the sound of a text.

_< Timmy: you mean to tell me you'll come in a suit? I'm not going to object if that's what you're asking.> _

And there it is, that familiar feeling of adrenaline rushing over me.

_< Armie: I'll take the tie off so it's not too formal, how's that>_

_< Timmy: tell me more, Mr. Editor> _

I laugh and hide my smile and blush behind my hand as I sway in my chair to see if anyone's peering over at me. There's no way I'm reading this wrong, and this attention from him brings me back to a time when all I thought of was how to spend more time with him in my arms. There's a playfulness here that I can remember from our time together, though it’s _just_ different enough now to matter. Almost as if he knows how he affects people, that coyness he showed me when it was all new has grown into something intoxicating and addicting, even now, even in text.  

_< Armie: More? Don't be greedy, we haven't even made it to dinner.> _

_< Timmy: Fine.>_

_< Timmy: I told my parents I saw you. I think they would have disowned me if I wasn't already taking you out to dinner. You're the only guy I've ever dated who they ask about…> _

_< Armie: God I love your parents.>_

"Armie?" I startle and look up, phone clattering to the desk from my hands. Cathleen looks amused as she shifts to lean against my door with her arms crossing over her chest. "Am I interrupting?"

"Of course not, no." She huffs out a small laugh and nods. Tells me she has a new writer coming in that she wants me to meet with, probably just so she doesn't have to take time out of her day before she knows if they're worth it. I type out a quick text to Timmy to tell him I'm looking forward to it, then get back to work. The afternoon passes quickly, but only because we're busy. Before I know it, I'm slipping my arms through my suit jacket, loosening and removing my tie, and stashing my bag at my desk so I don't have to bring it to dinner; I'd be fine without it for the night.

I smile when Drew tells me to have fun and slip my earbuds in before turning on a playlist and looking up the restaurant one more time.

 

 

By some miracle, I arrive early and sit down at the bar to wait for him. It's already a bit crowded—I wonder if he made a reservation. I get my hands on a menu and forget to glance over my shoulder to watch the door, thoroughly distracted by the options, atmosphere, and scent of fresh pasta. Cool hands slip over my shoulders, his smell consuming me before I even process what's happening. "You're early," I hear, skin igniting on my neck where his breath brushes over me.

"I was eager," I admit, turning to look at him. Maybe it's the low lighting, or the crowded space, but he is radiant before me, hands still lingering at my shoulders with a small smile. Under his coat, he wears a casual (though I'm sure expensive as hell) black sweater over an embroidered striped dress shirt that dizzies me, and his dark jeans sit cuffed at his boots. He chuckles and I glance back up at his eyes to see them dancing with something I vaguely remember from our time together. Anticipatory. Playful.

Breathing becomes difficult.

"Come on, we have a table," he says, voice barely audible over the hum of the restaurant. There isn't even a question—his hand is already in mine somehow and our jackets are slipping off shoulders and he watches me from his seat with hands folded on the table, smile firmly planted on his lips.

He orders a bottle of wine and smiles when I look at him questioningly. "It's on me," he says after the waiter walks away.  _So it is a date._ I catch my breath and nod, a hand lifting to cool my blushing face before I can meet his eyes again and mumble _that's kind of you, thanks;_ it makes me cringe and him smile simultaneously. So maybe nothing has changed at all.

The restaurant is nice, but full of distractions in its coziness. I fidget more than I typically do, which only serves to make me more self-conscious over this entire situation. I'm not used to this; it's been years since I was anxious on a date. _I'm_ the confident one, the one who pulls out the chair and orders wine with a smile and ease of mind. The only comfort I take in my nerves comes when his eyes follow the movement of my shirt sleeves folding up to my elbow. I can’t stop the smile from grazing my lips when I settle and notice his breathing is a bit shallower. Whatever advantage I may have gained with exposing my arms dissipates quickly when he nudges my foot with his as he takes a deep breath and adjusts his curls around his ears.  

"Are you okay?" he asks after the waiter returns and pours us each a glass, leaving the bottle behind.

"Yeah," I nod, staring at the glass. I could do this, I just had to shake it off and lean in to… whatever this is. _Flirting? Is that too presumptuous to assume that’s his goal here?_ But this is Timmy. And I've never been able to hide from Timmy. With a slight glance up at him, I shake my head. "I'm actually really fucking nervous."

"Yeah?" he breathes, his face shifting. I watch, entranced, as his features turn unbearably soft, the corners of his lips curling up. "I am, too. Just so you know." I nod slowly and try to digest that. His hands fidget a little as he smiles back at me.

"Is this—" I bite my lip, stop the words from stumbling out. Though I must have piqued his interest, which means this won't be easily dropped. He leans forward, takes a sip of his wine, and tilts his head _just_ enough to send a shiver down my spine. "Is this a date?"

My face feels warm as a grin spreads across his face. I can tell he's holding back laughter and I don't know if that's a good sign or bad, but it feels like a sign, nevertheless. "Armie," he sighs, shaking his head. There's something about how he says my name—I don't really know how I ever thought someone else would be able to satisfy me when even just my name from his lips is making me feel more than anyone else has made me feel in years. "You don't date much, do you?"

"My job is pretty demanding," I admit, shaking my head. My neck feels itchy.

"Okay, then let me break this down for you. _Yes_ , this is a date, or at least I'm hoping it is. At the end, they're going to bring a check and you're going to let me pay because I asked you out. And then we're going to go on a walk, and I'll let you hold my hand and maybe we'll kiss if you're comfortable with that. Is that alright?"

"Yes," I nod. Perhaps I’m a little too eager, because he's grinning broadly now, but he's also _blushing_ which is new and welcome and stunning. "Fuck, yes that sounds so nice," I sigh, my hands scrubbing over my face.

"Did you really think this wasn't a date?" I look up at him, afraid of the honest answer. "Good lord. I bought a new outfit for this, we're in a romantic restaurant—Armie I could have been married and I would have walked away if you reappeared in my life and wanted to meet up. And after seeing you the other day and you were still… _you_ …" I watch him fade with a look in his eyes that leaves me breathless. I forgot he could do that, just look at me and dissolve every insecurity I'd ever had.

"Oh," I nod, breath still caught in my throat. "To be clear, you're not married."

"No!" he laughs, the spell broken. "Completely single."

"Me, too."

"Good."

"Good." The waiter appears with our food, but I can't keep my eyes off him. He smiles at the guy politely and looks back at me, chills covering me whole with the intensity he meets me with. I think about what he said and have to look away to keep my head clear, take a sip of wine to stop my mouth from drying out at the prospect of getting to kiss him again, the very _real_ possibility of waking up to him again suddenly overwhelming. A part of me wants to leave now.

"Hey, are you going to zone out all night?" I look back up at him to find his eyes kind and smile easy.

"You can't just tell me I’ll get to kiss you and expect me to not zone out." His eyebrows shoot up with a smirk.

"Is _that_ what's got you distracted?"

"It's not fair, you know I daydream."

"Well, I figured it was more polite to say kiss than fuck."

"Jesus Christ," I laugh, eyes closing. I know by his tone he's teasing, but the implication alone is almost too much for me. "You're going to kill me." He smiles, that blush on his cheeks again. I want to know who put it there, how he was so okay with my seeing the coloration spread, revealing him.

"You're still shy, that's adorable."

"I'm not, actually," I shake my head and take a deep breath, try to think about anything but unbuttoning his shirt. "I swear to god, I haven't felt like this in years. People don't really make me nervous anymore. I'm usually much more in control of myself." He softens and nods, his eyes so goddamn green.

"I know what you mean. You bring out this sort of… I don’t know. Confident side of me that isn't always easy."

"You're not like this with everyone?" He shrugs and swallows hard, and I definitely _do not_ watch his Adam's apple. "Lucky me." There's that laugh again, his lip between his teeth, eyes down. I'm transfixed until it stops and his eyes lift back to mine.

"Armie? I really missed this." The air whooshes out of my lungs as my body finally relaxes when he reaches out to touch my hand.

"Me, too."

 

 

He's exactly the same and completely different and I am still so in love with him that it's a little embarrassing considering the time spent apart. But we talk about theatre and he gets so caught up when I start asking about his favorite roles that I fall a little harder for him, the passion I'd only caught glimpses of before now placed before me without pause. I let him try my pasta and he insists I try his as well, the both of us loosening up the more wine we drink. Somehow we end up on my story, but we keep it light for the sake of location and timing. I give him the basics, that after I moved out, I started paying my own way and it had consequences, but things are getting better with my family lately. He nods, doesn't push, reaches out to rest his hand over mine with a smile before changing the subject.

I think he must be fascinated by my desk job, because he asks the most obscure things he can think of about what it's like. I tell him about my boss and Drew, watch as his eyes shift when I mention him, noting perhaps a tone of jealousy he's not letting me in on. I wonder if I could push it to see if he would actually get jealous, but know I would be just as bad the second we started talking about our ex's. Thankfully, that topic stays off the table.

"So I should probably tell you," he says, sipping the last of his wine. "I kind of want to get out of here."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." I watch him lick over his bottom lip and nod, my blood suddenly warming. He pays like he said he would and tells me I can get it the next time, which makes me smile more than it probably should. We step out onto the street and this time I take his hand in mine, our fingers slipping together like no time has passed at all. I don't even know where we're walking to or if he even has a destination in mind, but I walk by his side and run my thumb over his wrist and palm to ground myself in the moment and stop myself from asking about destinations, content just to be at his side.

We pause at a red light and he turns into me so his face is pressed against my chest. The instinct to hold him is too powerful as my free hand lifts to cradle his head against me, a million emotions filling me up when he snuggles closer and the smell of his shampoo and aftershave overwhelms me. For the first time in years, I feel completely held as he wraps an arm around my waist, his head tilting up to look at me. In an instant, every argument, every restless night, all the men I'd been with in frustration and desperation to forget the loss of him, it all slips away.

He's walking us back to his apartment, I gather eventually. "We don't have to do anything," he says, and my heart aches as I hear him saying those words to me in my childhood bedroom, his shyness coming out even now as he bites his lip when I realize where we're going. "I just can't—I don't _want_ to say goodnight. I don't expect anything. Is that okay?"

"Yes, that's okay," I nod, squeezing his hand.

"I just got you back, you know?" I watch his lip quiver and feel the emotion in my own chest starting to bubble up. I know if he cries, I'll be a lost cause; by the looks of it, the reverse may also be true.

"I know," I tell him, hope he understands that _I know_ everything he is feeling because I feel it, too. I pull him into a tight hug on the sidewalk and force myself to push the emotion down until we're alone and can process together properly. He takes my hand again with a small smile and leads me after we part, only a few blocks away now. There's an energy to him that seems to grow with every step, his hand squeezing mine or his eyes flickering up to meet me with small smiles.

We reach his building and he pulls me up the stairs to the second floor before pausing outside a door, his hand in his pocket to reach for a key. His back is to me, neck exposed when he looks down, and I can't help myself. I spent years wondering if I would ever get the chance to hold him again, to touch him and tell him what he means to me—the very real opportunity to build this back up into something worthwhile is as overwhelming as his proximity now in the narrow hall.

I watch my hand reach out to brush against the hair at the nape of his neck, a shiver going through us both simultaneously as small goosebumps break out under the pads of my fingers. "Armie," he breathes, and I know I should wait until we can talk about this, but years of longing stich into the space between us and I can't stop myself from leaning in to press my lips against his neck, my eyes slipping shut when I'm hit with his smell and the feel of his skin, the brush of his curls at my nose.  

He turns, his eyes heavy and brimmed with emotion, his mouth open, lips dry, and he is the most beautiful person I have ever seen. My body reacts instantly when his hand lifts to press against my cheek—my forehead presses against his, my hands settling on his waist as he falls against his door, panting. "Do you want to talk about this?" I ask, surprised my voice works.

"Dunno," he breathes. I don’t know when his eyes closed but I notice it now, his lashes cast dark over his skin. "Can't think." I can feel his quickened breath as it puffs over my lips, the sensation intoxicating, and I want more, so much more.

"Can we go inside?" He nods quickly with a deep breath before he pushes me back for some space.

"Don't touch me or I'll never be able to do this," he mumbles, his shaky hands lifting to unlock the door. I can't help but laugh to do something with the tension I feel overtaking my body. He leads me in and turns on a light and I have to force myself to step away from him to stop myself from touching.

His apartment is a little messy, but not dirty. "Lived in," is what my mother would have said. It's a studio like mine, but it's pretty big considering. I glance back to smile at him and feel my body warm when he returns it softly. He has scripts on his coffee table and books stashed haphazardly into a bookshelf that doubles as DVD storage. Pictures of his family punctuate the space and I find myself gravitating towards one of him and his sister at graduation, the picture he sent me years ago. "I used to have yours too, but my ex didn't appreciate it." I turn to look at him, surprised.

"You had a picture of me up?" He shrugs. "For how long?"

"Don't make me embarrass myself," he smiles, those fingers of his scratching at the back of his neck. "Do you want tea or a beer or something?"

"Sure," I nod, my hands fitting into my pockets. "Whatever you're having." I want to follow him, press him against his fridge and make up for lost time, but the revelation that he'd kept a piece of me so out in the open still has me too distracted to do anything but sit down on his couch and wait for him. The sound of running water flows through the apartment and I glance back at him in the kitchen area as he places a kettle on the stove, wonder what it would be like to wake up to him again.

He looks up and sees me staring suddenly, his eyes narrowing with a smile. I can hear the _what_ on the tip of his tongue, but it doesn't come. Instead, he stares, his lips curled, his hip shifting to rest against the countertop. The sweater he wears hangs well on him; I can properly look now and see the slight v of his body, the top button of his shirt undone, his socks multicolored and bright. My eyes make it back to his eventually, whether seconds or minutes have passed I’d have no clue if it weren’t for the tea kettle taking its sweet time. He’s still staring at me, his mouth open, the smile long gone as his chest rises and falls quickly—he looks as trapped as I feel. Suddenly, it's too much, the tension. I stand to go to him, my steps deliberate as I near and place my hand on the small of his back. Something overcomes me and I rest my head against his shoulder, though it means I have to bend down a little, but it makes him chuckle and I want to soak up that sound so it lives in my memories forever.

His hands slip into my suit jacket to wrap around my waist so we're properly hugging and I am more complete than I thought I had any right to feel. The touch of his fingers at my spine is familiar and comforting, though exhilarating, his face shifting to press against my neck. My breathing is shallow, though I'm drowning in the depth of him as his nose skims along my skin up to my jaw, his fingers skating around to my sides at the same time. I am a collection of goosebumps under his attentive touch, eagerly awaiting the next brush, the subtlety with which I know he could take me apart with a glance, a single kiss.

And I know this can't last, because surely I can't be this lucky twice in one lifetime, but my skin ignites as his lips join the exploration his nose has been on; a sigh slips out of me, my eyes clenched tight to absorb the sensation as featherlight presses of his lips scatter over me like sunshine. We linger, the quiet hum of the kettle warming the soundtrack as he holds me with an ease no one has since him.

Slowly, he shifts, his nose brushing against mine like satin. He lifts himself with firm fingers at my sides, and maybe my memory failed me, or maybe I really wasn't able to really appreciate him before, or maybe we're just better at this little dance. But he is _dizzying_ , just by existing, by breathing my air and hesitating.  And he is different, the feel of his hands against my back more sure, his lips experienced as he hovers away from mine, the anticipation throwing stars in my vision as his breath puffs over my mouth as if asking to consume and _be_ consumed in this moment more than any kiss could ever convey. My hands lift, his face soft between my palms like a dream. But it's real, his sigh and nose bumping mine—it's all real.

The boy I fell in love with years ago grips at my shirt and I can feel the exact moment his age and maturity and experience slips away until it is just him, his lips pressing up against mine and holding steady—

It's slow, a memory of something stolen away in daydreams to get me by, the fog that overwhelms me anytime I kiss someone new and wonder if it'll finally be enough to erase him from my subconscious, the drumming in my veins when I've thought of him in the middle of the night and the way he made me feel. It is a million moments pressed into one significant time warp that leaves it all behind.

Because he opens up to me and perhaps for the first time in my entire life, I know it was all worth it.

He tastes like wine and his hands are fire, his quiet hum sandpaper and velvet all at once. When the kettle whistles, he turns sharply to move it off the burner before kissing me once more, one fluid movement, my breath still caught in throat with no time to recover. I wouldn't have it any other way as he licks at my lip and chuckles, hands moving to loop around my waist. His apartment is warm, the city's nightly hue pouring in through the cracks exposed by his curtained windows. The subtle colors shift on his walls as he rests his head against my shoulder and breathes. He is living and breathing in my arms; still, I worry he will slip away, some figment of my imagination.

He doesn't ask when I hold him tighter, only returns the gesture. Smiles when I pull my hands through his hair and make him look me in the eyes. Allows me to stare until all I see is gold and green in his eyes reflected back at me, through the past, through the distance of my future. His breathless laugh slips into the airwaves when my forehead falls against his, and I swear I see stars when his lips press the most delicate kiss against my nose. "You okay?" he asks.

"I am more okay than I've been in years." He smiles brightly before kissing me, his lips a fleeting brush against my own before he's gone, turning in my embrace to pour water into two mugs with tea bags. My hands stay on his waist, and he's careful not to move too far to keep them there. It makes me smile, which makes _him_ smile when he turns, and a warmth I can't explain overwhelms me instantly.

"How are you still single?" he muses as we sit on his couch, tea placed carefully on the coffee table in front of us. He has old vintage coasters, but they sit forgotten. I smile at the floor and shrug. My gaze catches on his mug when it moves, follows it to his lips.

"Do you want the easy answer?"

"I want the honest answer." I sigh and lean over to press my lips against his shoulder and grant myself the luxury of lingering.

"Because of you," I whisper, face hidden. There's a moment of silence where I hold my breath before he shifts. Suddenly his head is resting against mine as his fingers slip into my hair to soothe me. He still had the uncanny ability to make me feel smaller than I actually am, more innocent perhaps, younger. "No one has ever come close."

"Man, I could say the same thing," he mumbles, nails against my scalp. I sigh and move so my arms can slip around him as my head tilts to look him in the eyes. He's too close, the sight of him sends butterflies through my system in the quietness of his apartment. I kiss him to silence the sound of _I miss you_ in my head, but it only lasts a few moments before I sit back and run a hand through my hair.

"I tried, you know," he says quietly. I glance at him and nod. "It never felt right. And even when it started to feel good… I'd wake up and it wouldn't be you." My body stings, aches. The thought of him waking up to anyone that wasn't me, the thought of him waking up and _missing me_ , all this time, it's almost too much. When he looks at me, it's with pained eyes that make me sink into the cushions.

"I met this guy in college who, I thought maybe, you know? It might work. But one day I realized he had green eyes and dark hair and bit his lip when he got nervous and… it was like ice water. I'd tried to find you somewhere else and, it was like a cheap imitation."

"Oh god, yes. My ex reminded me of you and I was so depressed towards the end because I couldn't figure out why it didn’t work and _of course_ it was because I kept expecting him to be you, and—" He stops, glances down, pulls his mug into his hands. He doesn't sip it, just hovers, mug still on the coffee table. I wonder if he's seeking warmth; I feel sick, the energy draining from my body. I want to tell him I missed him just as much, that I understand completely, but somehow it feels insignificant.

His ex, I wonder if it's the same one that spurred on his late-night googling of me, the one that made him want to reach out. His eyes close and he swallows, and I can't sit still anymore, my hands reaching out to run over his back, his arms, pull him into my side, into a hug as he twists his body. "You are the only person I want to be with," I whisper, head resting on top of his. Perhaps this will be enough to convey what I want to say but fear. "I'm sorry it took this long."

"No, don't be sorry," he mumbles, face pressed against my chest. It almost doesn't seem fair that I draw so much comfort from an action meant to comfort _him_. "Look," he says, pulling back. He places a hand on my cheek and smiles softly, my heart filling up and spilling over. "I needed time. I did. And I met some people, and I think we need to talk about relationships because that’s what you do, right? Talk about it and move on? But I don’t want to get jealous over people who don’t matter right now so… can we not talk about it tonight? Can it just be _us_?”

I think about it, the kinds of questions we'll inevitably have to ask of one another. I think of his relationships, of my own, of the heartache that swept through it all. I feel his thumb brush over my cheek and remember his warming gestures in our youth and how easily he could calm me down, soothe me, love me. I see pain in his eyes and know I must return the favor. I nod. Pull him closer, brush my lips over his forehead. He smells warm and comforting and I don’t want to risk losing him again. He slips his arms around my waist and presses his face against my neck with a sigh, and I know in that moment I will do whatever it takes to hold onto him for the rest of my life

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOO im so happy with this chapter (and the next) and i hope yall are as well! They have some big things to talk about obviously, but it felt so honest and true to let them fall back into each other. I think it would be difficult for them not to, after all. 
> 
> If yall haven't read You Could Be Happy, I'd urge you to read it at this time so you can get into Timmy's head. Some of those Easter eggs in that fic are in this chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an ode to the boy i love, boy i'd die to care for you   
> you're mine, mine, mine, tell me who do i owe that to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things. First, this chapter is a rollercoaster. It was finished like two months ago but then... this week I just couldn't stop adding to it haha so it's a long update to make up for the wait! Second, this chapter has been in my mind since the day I decided to write a sequel. I listen to A LOT of troye sivan while writing HL and Ode, and one day Animal came on and I knew I had to name the sequel after it. The lyrics to that song have been so inspirational to me in writing this chapter start to finish, even though it's been a WIP for months. I highly recommend listening to it. I may have to make a tumblr post about how Troye's music has inspired HL and Ode, because putting my Animal support in this box is going to overwhelm everyone lol

"You're kidding," I mumble, heart clenched in my chest. He stands a few feet away at his closet, sheepish smile in place with a shrug. I watch his fingers loosen around the fabric in his hand so half the material falls out, exposing the graphics. "Jesus."

"It has a hole in the arm, just a little one. Your other one, the first one, got this stupid stain in the corner, but it's still probably the softest thing I have. Let's see…" My heart is in my throat while he sifts through his clothes to find my own. He emerges, blushing, an old pair of my boxers clutched tight, another shrug before he's pushing them away and clearing his throat, my own tight.

I am frozen where I stand as he pulls at the shirt he wears and smiles brightly, hands reaching out for a hoodie as he turns to me. His arms drop to his sides— "What's wrong?"

"Timmy," I complain with a heavy hand to wipe away the emotion on my face. "What am I supposed to do, fuck. You kept it all?"

"I couldn't get rid of you," Timmy shrugs. His words cut straight through me and I feel heavy, my head falling back as a sound escapes me. He says nothing, but he walks over to me and wraps his arms around my neck until I pull him in.

After we'd lost our jackets and shoes and sipped our tea, he'd been careful to dance around certain topics. I could tell it was in part to spare me, in part to spare himself. Our past was there, layered under everything but carefully concealed, only dipped into for doses of casual intimacy enabling our hands to brush or legs to bump. He didn't kiss me again, nor I him, but he told me about his plays while I spoke of work and life in California as his feet pulled up onto the couch and tucked under my legs. His eyes were bright and curious and so stunning when they peered back at me that sometimes I found myself struggling to catch my breath. When a moment of silence dragged on, he'd gotten up and called over his shoulder, "I wanna show you something." I'd barely made it a foot off the couch before I realized what he was looking for, at which point I felt my entire being seize up in anticipation.

His arms are tight around me now, comforting. "You have no idea how many nights I just pulled your clothes on to feel you again," he mumbles, face pressed against me.

"I wondered." His fingers slip into my hair, eliciting a sigh from my lips. "I thought you probably got rid of them, but I always wondered."

"Do you still have my shirt?"

"Of course."

"Of course," he repeats, snuggling up until there's nowhere else for him to go, my arms tighter around his back, wrapping all the way around. I wish I could stop time, freeze us here in this moment with his arms around me, mine around him, our hearts finding a pattern together like they used to. Maybe like they always did.

His hands drift from my hair to my shoulders, pausing for only a moment to make me think he might push me away. His face stays firmly pressed against my neck, though, his breath steady at my pulse to remind me why it beats. Slowly, I feel his hands push lower, fingertips grazing and breath burning. My shirt was stitched together to be felt by his hands, their threads fulfilling every purpose as he takes it in his grasp, his palms writing stories on the edges as he tugs it free from my pants, the fabric blanketing him. His fingerprints ink over me, evidence of this moment for the future in the second my skin ignites under his lips.

Every question dies, every ounce of uncertainty out the window. Tracing my sides, he lifts himself, my tongue in his mouth, my buttons coming undone, his hair tangled up. He stumbles, grips my pants-- chills run over my skin from his cold fingers tucked into my boxers, body swaying to follow helplessly. The wall catches our fall, his back hitting it gracefully. His body turns slightly, a look in his eyes as I'm moved, his sweater yanked off his form, his fingers fumbling with his dress shirt’s buttons until it’s falling too, his hands in mine, mine on his hips when he turns completely and leans back—for a moment, he just breathes. Steady. Sure. Hair falling all over my shoulder, spine against my chest, warmth drowning me in waves of his cologne and skin.

I wonder how many men have heard his moan when I lay a hand over him as he grows hard, when I press down hard with the heel of my hand, if he turned to putty for them or only me. I brace us against the wall with a hand, his own gripping at both of my biceps, slipping, slipping away, the absence temporary when touch returns at my sides, my _ass_ , the hand that holds him at bay for more, always " _more_." He says it, and again, pushes my hand under layers of cloth until my name is barely there on his lips.

We shouldn't, I know we shouldn't yet. But he pulls away and pushes me through his space until he's on his knees, my belt thrown across the room without ceremony and he's _laughing_ , so hard from the sound of my damn belt hitting the wall somewhere off to the side and clanging onto the floor, on his ass staring up at me as I duck down to join him in his fit of giggles and tackle him until he's gripping my shoulders, my arms lifting him until I can make a move to stand, fail _miserably_ when he grabs at my ass to stabilize himself, and end up crawling with his arms around my neck to the bed a few feet away because standing would take too long.

His laughter is intoxicating and I'm fucking drunk.

He silences when I toss his pants and grip his dick again, arms falling to the bed like an offering as he stares at me with some sort of awe I’m sure I don’t deserve.

It takes longer this time around for either of us to completely cave to our desire; maybe that’s experience, maybe it’s just that we’re not teenagers anymore. He toys with me as much as I do him, his skin burning where my scruff has touched, my own skin covered in light bites and scratches he traces and traces again while teasing me, gripping my base periodically as if he knows how close I am at any moment. I shouldn't be surprised that he smirks when I go down on him, but I find I am. He has to get up to grab lube and condoms, his ass already red from my hands and stubble when he's stumbling to the bathroom like a goddamn dream come true.

There were nights I thought I'd never see him again, years even. I'd seen a therapist who told me it was alright if he was just the first, that he didn't have to be the last. I'd given myself permission to fall into bed with others, to move on past his heart, or at least try. I can just barely see him rummaging through a box under the sink when my stomach drops. I'd given up on him. When I hadn't heard anything for months, I'd given up, forced myself to accept the very real possibility that nothing would ever change and he would never stich himself back into my life, hope slipping through my fingers for perhaps the very first time of our separation. He turns and stands to return to me, his smile blooming when he catches me staring. I didn't need this tonight, I wanted it _of course_ I wanted it but tonight didn't have to be _this_. I would have settled for holding his hand, for resting his head against my chest. "Hey," he whispers, sinking into the bed between my legs where I sit, his fingers in my hair. "What's wrong?" I shake my head, dizzy with sudden emotion.

"I don't want this to just be tonight." His skin is still smooth under my hands, but he's sturdier than he once was. I don't ever want to wake up missing him again, I want this to be the first night of every night. He kisses me, his breath mine as he holds my face in his hands delicately.

"Me either," he assures me. "You make everything make sense, Armie. I have _no_ intention of letting you go again." I allow myself a moment to stare at him and see the honesty behind his words. There's comfort in his touch as it swipes over my cheeks, waiting for me to catch up. All I want is him, I know that much. There's an itch under my skin that turns hot to the touch as he runs his hands over my shoulders, down my arms to loop them around his waist. Kisses land over my jaw, down my neck, and my mind slows until all that processes is him, his skin, his smell, his touch, his voice. He is under me in an instant, his hands in my hair when I lower to loosen him up with my tongue, his thighs wearing a pair of matching bruises by the time he's crying my name to do something. He rides me because he loses patience, tosses my shoulder over onto the bed and sinks down before I can so much as complain—not that I want to the second it happens, my lungs so tight I fear I may pass out. He shoves my hands away and traps them against the bed when I try gripping his thighs to steady him, the sounds he makes pushing me as much as his body. And when he leans down to kiss me, he allows my hands to explore his body without hesitation, his eyes pressed against my cheek as I try to memorize him with my hands. "I think I've always loved you," he breathes into my ear when he's close. "Even before," he gasps, moving to stare into my eyes. I nearly cry from how long he's held on, how long I've had to wait to let go, from his confession, from the way he looks at me, how he slows until he's barely moving. "Even before I met you," he nods, eyes watering suddenly. " _Armie_ —"

"I love you, I know," I nod, reaching for his face. " _I love you_." When he kisses me, I can't stop myself from flipping him over, pressing in until it's over and he's clinging to my back.

 

 

"I think you're the love of my life," he says, hand reaching out to rest on my chest for my own. Everything in me screams to remember this moment, his hand on me, heart exposed and beautiful and _mine_. I hold his hand and turn my head to look at him beside me to take it in, soak up his love. He smiles and shrugs, chews on his lip. "I meant what I said you know."

"So did I," I tell him, tracing the lines of his palm. "I never stopped, I tried but… I never really stopped."

"I thought I did," he nods, frowning. "I convinced myself I didn't want you anymore, and then the day I saw that email I just… I sobbed," he laughs, moving onto his side, his leg drifting out over mine. "I realized it was all a ruse. I'd just been floating through life trying to make it feel real and I didn’t even realize it until then." His voice is so muffled I have to scoot closer to hear the warmth behind his words. "I built a life for myself and realized the only person I wanted to share it with was you."

"I feel exactly the same," I all but laugh. "Is it weird that it kind of feels like no time has passed?" I ask quietly. "Obviously, it feels like it has. But also…"

"It's like you were always there anyway," he nods. "Like we've always been together."

"Yeah, "I breathe. He lifts his hand to rest against my cheek and I smile, heart warm and full. "Fuck, I'm so in love with you still." He smiles brightly, closes his eyes, leans towards me to rest his head on my shoulder. Almost purring, sighs against me.

"Again." I press my lips to his head and smile softly.

"I love you."

"I love you, too," he tells me, voice sure. He lifts himself to look at me as he says it. "God, I think I've lied every time I've said that except with you."

"Bastards," I shake my head, smiling fondly at him. "Didn't deserve you." He chuckles and traces my lips with his finger. "I don't really want to know about them," I tell him. "Unless it was important, don't tell me."

"Okay," he nods. "Same for you." There's something unbearable sad in his eyes that he blinks away before I can ask. In its place is a brave sort of confidence. "I don't really want to think about whichever guy taught you to eat ass," he smirks. I blush and move to cover my face, but he stops me. "Because that's a lucky son of a bitch."

_"Shut up."_

"I'm just saying—I should probably send a fruit basket or something but I'd be too jealous."

"Oh my god," I laugh, tackling him to the bed to tickle his sides.

"It's very hot, don't get me wrong. I love these new tricks of yours, I just wish I'd learned them with you." I stop my assault and smile at him sadly.

"I wish you did, too," I nod. "Every first from now on is you."

"Promise?" He extends his hand, pinkie up.

"Promise," I tell him, intertwining our fingers.

 

 

"Worst sex," he asks, voice low and rumbly as he pushes his hair behind his ear. I laugh and trail a hand up his back to tangle in it, leaning over his shoulder to kiss him before settling back on the bed, arm tucked under my head to keep it propped. I lost track of how long we’d been laying here talking, but hours must have passed. He lays on his stomach now, his ass barely covered by my bedspread despite chills running over his skin—he squirmed too much to keep it lifted and to be honest, I think he liked that I couldn't stop tracing lines, touching his freckles, staring, kissing—I think he liked the attention. I think he didn't give a shit about being cold.

"I don't remember his name," I shake my head, smirking.

"Oh my _god_ , really? _YOU?"_ he laughs, lifting up on his elbows. "You had a one-night-stand?"

"I had a phase," I mumble, embarrassed at the blush I feel creeping up. His eyebrows lift and I can't stop the nervous laugh from bubbling out. "It was some guy my friend set me up with, we were shitfaced and it was awkward, he didn't even take his shoes off and left before I pulled my pants up." I cover my face and laugh through the memory. "God, it was so bad."

"Wow, I never would have guessed."

"What part?"

"All of it," he shrugs, slipping his arms back under his pillow and settling down on the bed to stare at me. In an instant, nerves shoot through me. Maybe I was too different for him now. "You're just so… thorough with me. You know? You take your time." I clear my throat but it does nothing to clear the dryness I feel. "It doesn't feel rushed, it never did even when we were just… you know. Calling each other and stuff," he continues, blushing. God, I loved it when he blushed, I loved seeing this side of him. It takes the edge off the embarrassment of admitting this.

"That's because I never wanted you to hang up," I tell him, thinking back to the few months we kept in contact after our week together before it all went to shit. Of the late night phone calls where he'd laugh so quietly in my ear and confess how much he missed me, the nights when just hearing him breathe sent me to the edge because I could _almost_ picture him there with me, the hitch in his breath—it had been years since I'd allowed myself to think about it.

"It's more than that," he smiles. "Sex with you has always been so… I don't know. Amazing seems inadequate," he laughs, shoving his face into the pillow. It's unbearable, the warmth that fills me to see him vulnerable and shy—he grips my heart effortlessly as he glances back with a smile. "I can't imagine you not having good sex."

"Don't imagine me having sex with anyone else, it's all terrible compared to you anyway," I say, shoving my hammering heart aside to speak.

He hums quietly and readjusts, his hair falling into his eyes enough that I can't stop myself from reaching over and tucking it back, his eyes fluttering closed. "Next question," he says softly.

"Wait, you didn't answer. You just made me talk," I point out, huffing out a laugh. He pouts, the jut of his lower lip so fucking cute I have I lean over and kiss him to stop it from ruining me. He laughs when I do, the sound vibrant as it bounces around my chest.

"It's not important," he says.

"Then why did you ask?" His eyes reveal too many emotions at once for me to count as he stares at me, but I'm almost certain they settle on sadness. I reach out, seeking some form of comfort just seeing him shake his head.

"It was the first after you," he mumbles. "It sucked. I couldn't stop thinking about you and I… It felt hollow. He was so nice, too. Really liked me. I just couldn't shake it off. It just wasn't you."

"Oh, god—Timmy—" He shakes his head again and places a hand on my cheek, his eyes still sad. My eyes water just thinking about him missing me in that moment.  

"Next question," he mumbles, swiping a tear when it slips from the corner of my eye. I nod and take a deep breath, try to force away the ache in my bones at his confession.

"Um," I clear my throat and shift so I can stare at the ceiling, my mind racing. How had it happened, was it with someone _he_ cared about? I want to go back and fix this, so he never had to endure it. "Best memory," I say, glancing over, trying to ease the pain in my chest. "Of us." He smiles instantly, the relief overwhelming as I feel my lungs fill.

"The first night I stayed with you," he says quickly, biting his lip. "It was the first time I saw your room, god you were so nervous all the time, but I swear I was worse off that night."

"No way," I smile, remembering him walking around my room, holding my hand, trailing his eyes over my books and guitar.

"Yes," he laughs quietly, that laugh I love so much, almost just like he's breathing. "Do you remember? You made me so fucking nervous, all I wanted was to kiss you forever, but I was so nervous. I'd never been in a boy's room like that and you just kept looking at me like… like you knew. Like you could see the future and thought we'd be okay. And you were so damn romantic and sweet and.. I just had never felt so…" he smiles and untucks a hand from under the pillow, reaching towards me to touch my lips. I can tell he's lost in a memory. Gently, I kiss the pads of his fingers. "You're such an overwhelming person, I don't think you realize. But that night was the first time I really felt it in full force. It's my favorite memory, just laying down with you and feeling completely overwhelmed and loved. I felt so _safe_ , I remember telling you things and just wanting to tell you _everything_. I think that's the night I fell for you."

I can't help the smile tugging at my lips as he speaks, his eyes crinkling up as he remembers. It feels safe with him, under the blankets, tucked in memory. He traces his fingertips along my jaw and smiles softly. "What's yours?"

"I don't know how to top that," I whisper, looping my leg over one of his.

"Just be honest, I'm curious." There were countless moments, I want to tell him. Every single second with him was my favorite just because I was with him, because we were together and that was all that mattered. I consider before anything even happened, the day when he looked at me and told me I mattered, the words he spoke into my soul because he was afraid no one else would. I think of holding his hand for the first time and feeling more grounded than I ever had before, of the seconds before our first kiss when everything fell into place, when I knew that this wouldn't just fade because how could something _that_ powerful exist more than once? Kissing him in our hideout, kissing him against the shelves in my childhood room, whispering secrets in my bed late at night—it was _all_ my favorite.

I press my lips against his for a fleeting moment, suddenly overwhelmed. It's always been him, and I suppose I knew that. Wouldn't be _here_ if I didn't know that… but he's in my bed, and our story is stitched between us in memories I never want to fade. And I could tell him my favorite memory is when he emailed me back, or when I saw him again and _knew_ , or when we kissed and it felt just like I'd remembered. I could tell him anything and mean it. I look into his green eyes and feel my chest warm.

I know suddenly what I should tell him, the moment that I held onto over the years. "Our last night, after we had sex," I whisper, reaching to run my fingers through his hair. "We laid in bed for hours, just talking about the future. You were snuggled up to me and you smelled like me and it felt like… like where we belonged was together. You were so clingy that night and I felt like…like I could _be_ someone for you, the way you'd been someone for me. I felt important to you, not just this, _us_ was important. But me." He watches me as I speak and I almost stop because his eyes start welling up, but I find that it's hard to stop when the memory is so strong. "Like I was important to your _future_ , just like you were important to mine."

"You _are_ important," he nods, shifting suddenly so he's wrapped around me. "You're so fucking important." My hands latch onto his back to keep him close, his arm snaking up to my hair, his other tucked safely under my bicep and it would make me laugh, how twisted up we are, if it didn't feel so _right_.

"So are you," I breathe out as I feel my eyes slip shut, his puffs of air on my neck some cross between a sedative and wake up call. "I'm not usually this cuddly," I tell him. I don't really know why, but it seems like one of those thoughts that will bounce around my head until it's set free. "After sex, I mean."

"Really?" I feel his head lift up and open my eyes to meet his. "I am."

"I'm not surprised," I laugh, touching the corners of his eyes with my fingertips. "It suits you."

"Get used to it," he smiles.

"Already am."

"Those poor guys. You were just fucking them and leaving? God, they don't know what they missed," he shakes his head with a ghost of a smirk on his lips, one of his hands sneaking around to trace lines over the stubble dotting my jaw. "Did you really have a one-night-stand phase or were you just saying that?"

"Do you really want to know?" I ask. He'd told me he didn't want to know about the guys I'd been with—in a way, this feels like a trap.

"I think so… I want to understand you," he whispers, leaning down to press his lips against my chin.

"Okay…" I take a deep breath and move, his body slipping off mine a bit as I sit up against the pillows to look at him. As if he's pulled by a magnet, he adjusts immediately, his legs moving to accommodate my new position in the same breath he shifts up to look at me and lean against his side. "My first relationship after you was a bad breakup. Actually, I'm not sure I've ever had a good one," I chuckle, running a hand through my hair. I smile at him when his hand reaches out to rest against my heart, a small gesture I know he means as to comfort. "We were together long enough for it to be important, he introduced me to his family and everything. Anyway, we broke up right before Christmas and… Well my parents didn't exactly want me home so… I just kind of stayed in LA and fucked my way through the break," I shrug, trying to downplay it a little. I didn't _really_ want him to worry about it, but he's right—it's a part of what got me here.

"Jesus," he mutters, staring me down. It's hard to meet his eyes. The hand over my heart is gone and I fear the worst, his silence too loud as it drags on. I knew it would be too much. Fuck, he couldn't even handle sleeping with someone who wasn’t me and I went out and screwed anyone who would let me, this wasn't going to work. I glance over and see him worrying his lip between his teeth.

"It was a distraction, nothing more. I was always safe—I _am_ clean, just so you know. It never meant anything, I was just angry and hurt, and aside from that time I really haven't screwed around. _Please_ say something."

"I'm so sorry," he shakes his head, and in a move that catches me off guard, shoves my arm away from me so he can tuck it around his shoulder, his leg swinging over my body until he's wrapped around me in a hug that feels more like a true embrace, his arms tight and strong around my shoulders. My arms feel limp with nowhere to go; for a moment, I freeze as he breathes warmth into my body with his own. "I wish I could have been there for you." I can feel the quiver in his voice as much as hear it, my arms slipping around his form as the sound and relief seeps into me. "I thought you said your parents had been better?"

"Not then," I shake my head. "That was before Vik convinced them to let it go."

"I'm so sorry you were alone," he shudders, a hand slipping into my hair in a gesture that I'm not actually sure which one of us it's meant to comfort. "You're never alone now, okay?" I nod, overwhelmed at the sudden urgency and confidence in his voice.

"You don't care that I slept around?"

"Armie, _no_ , I don't give a shit," he mumbles, pulling back to look at me. "I care that you're okay." I can tell he's holding something back, his fingers tracing over my cheek as he looks over my face. I ask him what he's thinking and he sighs, shrugs his shoulders, presses his forehead against mine to steady us both. "I feel like I fucked you up," he whispers after a long moment of silence. I'm not sure what to say, what he even means. His hands frame my face and I can hear him swallow, hear the hitch in his breath. "I never wanted you to get hurt," he tells me. "I never wanted to let go of you."

"I know," I say, realizing his train of thought. This isn't your fault, I want to tell him, but how many nights had I thought the exact opposite? The truth was, I'd connected him to so many years of not being able to commit, not being able to truly fall in love again. It wasn't that I necessarily _blamed_ him for being alone, but I didn't exactly consider him innocent either. Now, what am I supposed to say? I don't _want_ to blame him, I don't _want_ to be afraid he'd walk away again. I don't _want_ to feel an ache in my chest when I think about the years we spent apart.

"Armie?" I realize my face must give something away as he searches for some sort of answer to whatever it reveals.

"I was mad at you." My voice is quiet, almost like it can't quite admit it at full force. "I didn't understand for a long time. I kind of resigned to having meaningless sex, it felt like it was all I could do. Every relationship I've ever had has just fallen apart and before I could accept the role I played in that, I blamed you." He nods sadly, tears forming in his eyes that I wish I could stop. "I never stopped wanting you, though. It was like… I was so upset I couldn't be with you," I say, voice breaking off at the end. I stop myself from continuing to stop us both from crying.

"If it helps, I hated myself for letting you go," he grumbles, hands falling between us at our chests.

"It really doesn't," I say, wanting him to look back up at me. When he does, I offer up a sad smile to show him I don't hold this against him. "I wanted you to be happy, Timmy. I wanted it to be worth it."

"It wasn't."

"I don't know…" I let out a deep sigh. "Maybe you're right, maybe we wouldn't have worked out and then that would have hurt more. I don't blame you, not for anything. I spent so long being upset and sad and it didn't get me anywhere. I forgave you _years_ ago, Tim. There's nothing left to forgive, so don't think I'm still upset."

"I know," he mumbles, shaking his head. "But you're hurt."

"Not so much now," I tell him, pressing my palm against his cheek. "I don't hurt anymore. Honestly, I haven't felt this good in a really long time," I smile, trying to feed him as much affection in my voice as I can. "And my ex's, you know… they all taught me something. It's not like they were for nothing," I say.

"Yeah… I guess you're right," he nods slowly, coving my hand with one of his own. "I just… I think I blamed myself for too long," he whispers. "It's hard not to even now."

"Don't," I tell him, kissing him solidly. "Blaming yourself isn't going to get us anywhere." He looks at me for a moment and nods, presses into my touch. I want him to know that every day I missed him, I always hoped for this day. A part of me always held onto the hope that we'd find each other, a part of me _never_ gave up. And I can see in how he touches me, how he kisses me and loves me, that he did as well.

He leans in and presses his lips to mine slowly, lingering until it feels soft and safe in this embrace again, until he feels sturdy and sure in his movements. I know this is messy, I know there's always going to be something lingering there, and I can see us getting too attached and protective of this, I can see me moving to wherever he is for whatever play he wants to do, can see him going on my business trips to avoid a weekend apart. Anything to stay together. Every touch of his hands against my skin feels like a promise, like he's telling me he is _here_ , he's not leaving, and my own in turn reassuring him. When he has me pinned on the bed under him, he looks in my eyes and I see that he means it when he leans down and whispers, "You're it for me, forever," with his forehead pressed against mine.

It doesn't matter somehow that we spent so long hurting without each other, because he kisses my neck and I know he's healing us from the outside in, reminding us that the only thing that matters now is the future, his hands on my sides and lips down my chest his way of claiming me, reminding me he is here and living and breathing and loving _me_. And when he's on his back, his skin under my own lips, I know he feels it, too.

It occurs to me as we're drifting off to sleep at last, my head near his shoulder as he traces lines over my arm, that I never would have felt this confident when I was eighteen. I would have always worried about my parents, maybe even my friends from high school. I wouldn't have felt prepared to live with him, to make moves for him. He was so worried he messed this up, but maybe he _didn't_.

Maybe all along we just needed more time.

He sighs and turns towards me and I can tell he's nearly asleep, his hand slipping off my arm. I look at his eyes and smile as they flutter, his lips turning up at the corners just a hint. He was always the right person for me, and we met at the right time, I'm sure of it because it helped me more than anything else ever could. But maybe the time for us to be together was always _now_ , when we could actually _be_ together.

I kiss his forehead and pull him closer, let his breathing soothe me to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a HUGE thank you to all of you who comment on this story. I read and reread your comments at least twice, sometimes more. It means so much to me to have so many people invested in this and so emotionally tied to it. I've said it before and I'll say it again, but this story means so much to me and I'm so happy I get to share it with all of you. Your kind words warm my heart so seriously thank you! I love all of you for the time you take to comment, and those who don't I still see your kudos and I appreciate and love you too! You've all been so amazing through this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello friends. I know some of you believed this story might be abandoned. And honestly, a part of me wanted to wrap this up in a chapter or two and be done with it once and for all. However, this story has become something far more important to me than just about anything else I’ve written. So, I am here. I’ve decided to continue on the original arc I’d planned for these boys, which means this story isn’t nearly over yet. I can’t promise regularly scheduled updates, but I can promise that I will finish this story one way or another. I appreciate all the wonderful and inspiring comments left on this story, and want to thank those of you who have left them time after time. I know you by your names, even the guests who use the same monikers, and I appreciate the support more than I can ever convey. Specifically, thank you to one of you who has managed to talk me out of the block I’ve been in lately. Your kindness is noted, and I thank you for your optimism.

His hands were greedy when I told him I needed to go to work, pulling at my clothes to trick me back into bed with him. We slept in late; I barely had time for coffee with him before I had to leave. He pinned me against his door and kissed me, made me promise to text him soon. I did before leaving the building and could practically see his smile through the words he sent back.

I sprint into my apartment, throwing clothes off and pulling new ones on quickly to look presentable, leaving again in a matter of minutes and grabbing a cab to get to work that much faster. Drew has coffee and a muffin waiting for me, thank god. I know it's a thin excuse to ask me about the date, but I don't really mind. I want to talk, fuck I want everyone to know. I need to tell Viktor, I think absentmindedly.

"Oh, my, god. You did it," Drew smirks when I take the coffee and thank him. "I _told_ you it was a date."

"What are you talking about?" I laugh, placing the mug down on my desk and grabbing my bag from where I'd stashed it. My phone vibrates and I pull it out, smile at Timmy's _have a good day at work_ text.

"You look happier than I've ever seen you, man," he says, sitting down across from me. "Tell me everything."

"It was a date," I say, smiling as I type out a simple thank you to send to Timmy.

"Obviously."

"God, Drew. I think this is it." He leans in and smiles, folds his arms.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying? After one date?"

"It's not just a date, man," I shake my head. "It's everything. It was like no time had passed at all. There wasn’t a second of awkward silence, and he's so amazing. He's so talented and bright and he still makes me feel the same way."

"Wow," he says quietly. I look at him and shrug. "You're a little bit in love, aren't you?" I laugh and rub the back of my neck. I knew it was crazy. But I'd fallen in love with him in a matter of days the first time, and I'd never really gotten over him. _Of course_ I was in love. Of course. "Look, I'm happy for you. Seriously. This is a nice change, seeing you actually smiling and excited about something that isn't a manuscript."

After he leaves, I look at his text again and let out a sigh before tapping out a reply.

_< Armie: I want to see you today. Any free time?> _

_< Timmy: I like that you're as greedy as I am. Facetime count?? I'm booked solid until rehearsals end :( > _

_< Armie: Tomorrow?>_

_< Timmy: breakfast? :) > _

_< Armie: Sold.> _

_< Timmy: I guess you can come over tonight if it's not too late…> _

_< Armie: How about you come over so I don't have to run home to change in the morning?>_

_< Timmy: Well that's presumptuous. I'll come over as soon as I'm free>_

I chuckle reading his text and feel my neck burn with some sort of fond embarrassment. The day drags on, even more so in the evening when he's rehearsing and I'm home alone, unable to reach out. I make some dinner he can heat up later and pace the apartment, text him my address, make the bed, toss some dirty clothes into the hamper. I look at the time and sigh knowing I still had a while to wait.

Vik texts me something he found online and I smile, knowing exactly how to kill the time.

"Hey Arms!"

"Hey," I greet, easing into the couch, grateful he answered quickly. "How are you?"

"I'm good, good. What's up?"

"I have some news," I tell him, picking at the nonexistent dust on my leg. "I um…I met someone." I chew on my lip as my heart races. I know this is only _technically_ true, because I knew Timmy before, but just saying it seems terrifying for some reason. He's silent, which makes the nerves in my stomach grow.

"That's good, Armie. I'm happy for you. How long have you been dating?" His voice is cautious and I don't really know why.

"Well I guess technically it's just been one date—"

"Wow, must be a hell of a guy to have you calling me after a date."

"What's wrong? Why are you being like this?" I ask, bothered at his tone.

"Sorry, I just—" I can hear him sighing on the other end of the line and begin pacing my apartment. "You've just been kind of distant since you moved and then suddenly there's some guy…I just don't want you to compensate for feeling out of place by jumping into bed with someone. That’s all."

"Oh," I mumble, thinking about my ex, how I tried to convince myself it was perfect with him just because I was tired of being alone. "This is different, trust me."

"Then I'm happy for you!" I know he's trying to push away his anxieties and I appreciate it, but it still makes me think. Vik always took my heartbreaks personally, he always wanted to protect me from the world. "What's his name?" I sigh and look out my window, smiling softly.

"Timmy." Silence.

" _Armie_ …"

"I saw him, Vik. He reached out."

"Like… _Timmy_?"

"Yes," I laugh, nodding nervously.

"Holy shit. What happened—when—oh my _god_!"

"I know," I smile down at my hands. "He um… he found my email."

"What email?"

"I may have emailed him when I moved here, it's not important—"

"Jesus Christ, Armie."

"Hey, it worked! So…" I shift the phone to my other hand and sigh.

"How is he?"

"Amazing." I hear him laugh and know I must sound completely gone but don't really mind. "We had coffee a few days ago and dinner last night and…"

"Yeah, got it," he laughs. "That's fast, bro."

"It's Timmy," I shrug. He hums to himself and clears his throat.

"You're being careful, right?"

"I mean, yeah we were—"

"No, no not that," he laughs, silencing me quickly. I feel my skin warming and smile awkwardly though he can't see it. "I just mean, this is _Timmy_ , you know? The guy who literally broke your heart so badly that you clearly still aren't even over him?"

"It was a mess, man. He didn't want to, Dad talked to him and you _know_ how he is."

"No shit," he sighs.

"I'll be careful, Vik. But it's not going to happen again."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because… it's been years, man." I lay down on the couch and stare up at the ceiling with a heavy sigh. I'm not sure how to really convey what I know in my heart through words. "The way he looks at me… Viktor, you remember when he left, we sat in my room and you just listened to me talking about him for like… five hours or something?"

"Yeah, seared into my brain," he laughs.

"That was after a week," I remind him. "It took days, man. It's fast with him, it's just _right_. It's never felt like that with anyone else, and when I saw him the other day it was exactly the same. It's completely blinding, I can't not be overwhelmed by him."

"You sound like you're already back in love with him." I try to detect signs of judgement, but all I hear is fondness and a bit of amusement.

"I am," I nod.

"You know, when I met Amy the first thing I thought about was the way you talked about Timmy. That I felt that way with her." I smile and shift onto my side. "I know it's different but I _do_ get it. She's the first girl I've ever really loved and I can't imagine loving anyone else."

"See? When it's right it's right," I say, thinking about my little brother and his girlfriend. "Amy would like Timmy."

"Amy would _love_ Timmy," he laughs. "If he's anything like he was, that is."

"Oh my god, Vik. He's the same but he's also so different. He's so fucking hot, oh my god." Vik laughs and I can't help the smile spreading over my face.

"Well as long as there's that," he jokes. "Look, I'm happy for you. Just have the tough talks, it's been a long ass time and you don't want to gloss over it."

"Thanks for the advice," I smile. For years, Vik's become a bit protective over me. Always the first to come to my rescue to cheer me up or warn me against assholes, the first one to call when he knew I'd fought with our parents. Every fight of mine was one of his, and though I could always hold my own, it was nice to have someone at my side. If anything, he taught me it was okay to lean on someone else just because they offer.

I do another sweep of my apartment before Timmy texts me, then another because it looks _too_ clean and I don't want that either. When he knocks, I nearly lose the ability to breathe.

"Hey," I smile, opening the door. And god, I thought I'd be more prepared for this. But he's standing there with tired eyes and a heavy black hoodie on his frame, the softest smile I think I've ever seen on his face meeting mine.

"Hi," he murmurs, leaning forward so his head falls against my chest with a thud, his arms following suit to loop around my body with a hum that I feel in my veins. I pull him closer, tuck him under my chin, and try to memorize this. He must be exhausted, he's like putty molding against me.

His chin lifts to my chest with a small smile, his eyes closed. I can't resist at all, not even for a second; I press my lips to his and sink into his grip tightening at my back. "Come inside," I whisper against him, too aware that we're practically in the hall. He tucks his hand into mine and follows me, lingering close when I shut the door. I take the backpack slung over his shoulder and sling it on my own as we walk into my place, discarding it by the couch. "Hey, did you bring an overnight bag?" I tease, smirking when he blushes and shifts his shoulders.

" _No,_ I always bring a bag to the theatre," he rolls his eyes and shoves me before looping his arms back around me. I remember him getting clingy when he was sleepy when we were younger and wonder if that's what this is, a trait that never left. "I may have just thrown in an extra set of clothes," he adds, kissing my chest. I can't help but laugh when he leans back to smile at me, his hands trailing up to rest at my shoulders. "God, I could get used to this." I feel dizzy with the way he's looking at me, full of emotion and gentle fondness. "Coming home to you."

"I could too," I nod, leaning in to kiss him again. It's just as intoxicating as ever and I find I have to pull back to save myself from getting carried away. "Are you hungry?"

"A little," he smiles, touching my lips with his fingertips. "Did you make me dinner?"

"I did," I nod, grinning like an idiot because he looks fucking excited and it's so cute. "I just have to heat some up."

"You're so sweet," he mumbles, tugging me into a hug. "No one's done that for me in a long time."

"That's a shame," I shake my head and rub his shoulders. He seems to relax into me and I make a mental note to do it again later if he seems stressed. "I'll cook for you any time. Just say when." He smiles and looks down but follows me to the fridge and watches as I heat up some of the stir fry I made earlier. I feel his eyes on me and blush under his attention, knowing he must be developing his own ideas about my life now that he's in my space just as I did with him yesterday. I take the food and walk over to my little table against the wall and motion for him to sit while I grab us beer. His ankle hooks around mine with a smile when I pull up a chair near him at the table as he eats. He chats about his day and asks about mine in a way that's so normal it almost feels unreal. When he's done eating, he leans his head on the table and smiles at me, reaches a hand out to mine, pulling it onto his knee. "Do you want to go to bed?" I ask quietly, his tired eyes drooping. When he nods, I put his dish in the sink and pick him up, his wide eyes on me as he shyly grips at my shoulders.

He lets me take his clothes off him and insists I take mine off as well, the both of us down to boxers and each other when we crawl under my blankets. He curls against my side and drifts off quickly, his fingers spread against my heart. Just as I'm nearing sleep, he shifts and looks up, smiles with eyes half closed, and kisses me. It's slow, it's _warm_ and comforting, his lips pressed against mine, hand on my heart, leg wrapped around one of my own. He goes pliant under me when I move him onto his back and cage him in, his eyes trusting and glazed when he looks at me. I can see his week wearing on him, the stress of the play sinking deep into his bones. I can see every sleepless night he must have had before yesterday, every man who would have taken this as an opportunity. I see it all on his face, open for me to see, to take this knowledge and do with it what I want. My fingers find their way into his hair and he hums, his eyes slipping shut. I sense as I scratch his head that he's already gone, his breathing evening out.

To see such open hearted trust given to me without hesitation makes me ache for the days I didn't get with him. I know he's asleep when his hand sinks to the side of his body, and watch as he smiles so slightly, head lolling towards my touch. His words from yesterday play over and over in my mind, that he wasn't like this with everyone, that he was bold with _me_ , bold _because_ of me. There is a tenderness to him that I've always known, but have only seen coupled with his quiet confidence and reassurance. Now it is laid bare. The emotion he gives me so freely falls from his features and I realize as he stirs and turns closer to my arm, seeking me in his slumber, that he needs me as much as I need him. That as much as I looked to him over the years to guide my confidence, he looked to me for just as much to find comfort and trust. He gives it so easily, I can see now how it would have led him to heartbreak and lonely nights where he didn't understand what had happened with some boy. I ache for him, for the nights he came home to no one and nothing, exhausted and alone, and vow to never let it happen again. I know there is more to him than he's letting me see now. I know there is heartache and love and adventure I haven't heard of yet. But I want it all, want to understand every inch of him, every scar, every memory.

I settle in behind him, pull him closer to my chest, smile when he burrows into the warmth and adjusts so I'm holding him as close as possible, and slip into dreams of him in my arms years into the future.

 

 

 

 

He wakes before me somehow, before my alarm clock even has a chance to go off. I slam a hand down on it and turn back in bed towards him, smiling before even really waking up because he's there, he's taking up my space and pulling me closer and making everything warm and smell of his shampoo and sweat. His hands are on me as I pull my blanket up and over my body, his fingers tracing my lips and cheekbones with reverence. "You're so cute when you sleep," he mumbles. "Like it's ridiculous. Were you always this cute?"

"Always," I yawn, pulling him closer to use his shoulder as a pillow. He laughs and rakes his hands through my hair, using his legs to keep my body close. I love this, could die like this in his embrace.

"Skip work," he sighs, a hand slipping down my back to roll me on top of him. "Stay here."

"You're not going to skip," I note, kissing his neck.

"I could."

"You couldn't, your play starts next week." He groans and pushes his face closer to mine to kiss me, his hands on my sides. I have to yank the blanket back over my shoulders after it slips to keep the warmth in, shivers scattering down my body at his touch.

"Then go in late," he says. "Please."  I sigh when he kisses me again, feel every inch of resolve slip away when he pushes me over and kisses down my chest.

"Give me my phone," I manage, staring at the ceiling. I crack a smile when I hear his quiet laughter and feel him stumble up onto his knees to grab it from the side table. I kiss him as thanks and sit up (though, admittedly, it's difficult when he's trying his best to straddle me as I move) before opening Drew's contact and calling him. He always went to the gym before work, I know he'll be up.

"Hey," he says after two rings. Timmy's kissing my neck and I have to push him away with a hand at his chest to focus.

"Hey Drew, how're you?" Timmy's eyes narrow and his hands trace lines down my torso as he stares at me.

"What do you want?"

"Why do I have to want something, can't I just want to talk?" I ask, smirking when Timmy swallows and shoves my hand away to kiss my collarbone. Jealous, I'd have to remember that. He bites at the skin and I have to stop myself from making a sound. _Very_ jealous, then.

"It's too early for you to just want to talk. What's up?"

"I need you to cover for me." He groans on the other end, and Timmy must hear because he lifts his face to place kisses along my jaw, bites my ear that isn't against my phone. "Stop," I whisper, trying to push him back. I can only control myself so much, and I didn't need this to get carried away while I was literally on the phone. He huffs but sits back, folds his hands into his lap, and glares at me.

"Armie," Drew starts. I can hear amusement in his tone and know it doesn't matter anymore, he clearly knows. "Is Email Guy there right now?"

"Email guy?" Timmy mouths. So he could hear, good to know. I shrug and hold a hand out for him to take, an immediate mistake when he lifts it to kiss my wrist.

"He might be," I tell Drew, watching Timmy twist our fingers together.

"Okay, just curious. Are you asking me to cover for you so you can have morning sex?" Timmy nods with a smirk and I can't help the laugh that escapes as his eyes dance with light. "So that's a yes. Look. You're gonna owe me."

"Yeah, I'll owe you. Will you cover?" Timmy's already got his hands in my hair. Drew agrees with a laugh and Timmy practically pounces before I hang up.

 

 

 

 

"So you're kind of jealous," I say, fingers toying with Timmy's hand after we've cleaned our chests and settled down.

"You keep mentioning him."

"I've mentioned him once," I counter, smoothing my hand over his. "It's okay if you're jealous."

"He's your work husband, isn't he?" I laugh, startled at the title, but shrug. " _Should_ I be jealous? Be honest." he asks, lifting up to stare at me. I smile and press a hand to his cheek.

"No, not at all. He's engaged, we just keep each other sane at the office." He thinks for a moment before nodding and settling back down on my chest.

"Does he like you though?" he asks quietly, tracing circles on my chest. "Because I'd like you. Even if I was engaged." I rub his back and think about how to answer him.

"It doesn't matter if he does or not," I tell him. "I want you. No one else matters. But for the record, I don't think he does. He could have taken his shot and he never did. So I don’t think so."

"So _you_ liked _him_."

"Timmy," I groan, turning so we're properly staring at each other. "Are you really worried about him?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Fuck I don't know. I guess not."

"You don't need to be jealous," I tell him. "I'm serious. You don't need to be jealous about anyone."

"It's just, he gets you during the day, you know? And I'll never have that." I stare at him as he pouts and feel the corners of my lips curve up.

"You get me on weekends," I tell him, trailing a hand up his arm and feeling butterflies burst in my chest at the way he's looking at me. "And nights." He rolls his eyes and pushes me onto my back, kissing me momentarily before sitting back on my torso to look down at me.

"I want you all the time," he says, hands resting on my chest.

"You can text me while I'm at work, will that do?" I tease, my heart seizing just thinking about a future with him.

"That's better," he nods. "Damn it. I don't know what happened, I just got so fucking jealous," he laughs, covering his face. "I'm not a jealous person. I swear."

"It's kind of cute," I admit, running my hands over his thighs. "But I don't want you to every worry about me, I'm a sure bet." He smiles and nods, trails his hands down my body.

"I know that," he tells me. I can see he's holding something back, trying to recenter us so we don't get too heavy before leaving. I appreciate it—God knows I don't want to leave at all, but leaving while he's sad would kill me.

He lets me up after another kiss and tries to climb in the shower with me, stopping only when I tell him he can shower when I'm gone and wear my clothes—I know him and this shower would stop me from ever making it to work otherwise. When I towel off, he insists on picking my clothes for me, drags my boxers up my legs with a smirk and a kiss while snatching my towel from my waist, his hands in my hair to mess with it while I try buttoning my shirt without him slowing me down. He kisses me when I gather my things to leave, his fingers sure at my jaw, tongue soft against mine. I feel like I'm drowning every time he touches me, but I like the drag of being pulled under by his hands, his lips, his voice.

I tell him to take his time and stay as long as he wants and make a mental note to ask Drew if it's okay to give him a key or if that's way too fast. If it even matters. Maybe I'd ask Vik.

He texts me while I'm on the subway and sends a picture of my bathroom mirror, all steamed over except a sliver where his phone covers half of his face. It's terribly innocent and unbelievably hot and I tell him as much, my body warm as it sinks in that this is _real_.

I tell him I need to see him again, blush when he asks if I'm always clingy, smile when he tells me he hopes so. By the time I walk into work, he's promised to come over again. He's sent another picture wearing my clothes before going to the theater with a heart emoji, my own heart aching from how full it feels with the simple sight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wanted domestic fluff, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ //A hit of dopamine, higher than I've ever been // He knows how to love me better //](https://open.spotify.com/track/4RoArPM0AsuW3h8hW8xtnr?si=hZLzhdGqQUeSV1nD1y0CIQ)

I get a text on my way home from work, Timmy asking if I wanted to hang out tonight after his rehearsals. I almost roll my eyes, he ought to know by now that it shouldn't be a question. He worries about how late it would be, he says. I call him, hoping he's on a break, smile as his voice floods my ears. "Hey, I only have a minute."

"That's okay, just wanted to hear you."

"Stop," his voice caught in that airy laugh of his. "So… tonight?"

"Yeah, tell me when and I'm there.”

"I love that you're so eager," he teases, and it makes me smile as I quickly cross a street, dodging bodies as I round the corner to get to my apartment.

"Good, because we'd have a problem if it turned you off."

"Oh nothing you do turns me off," he says casually, as if we aren't both in public, as if the mere mention of this didn’t make it hard not to go to him immediately. "I'll be late. My neighbor has a spare key, I can text her to let you in if you want?"

"That's fine," I tell him, let myself into my building, and say goodbye before getting the name of his neighbor and the door number. I'm not naïve enough to think I won't need extra clothes, so I pack a bag and smile as I zip it closed. Two weeks ago, I dreaded the weekends when I'd be alone. How quickly life turns around.

His neighbor is nice, her voice cautious as she questions me about Timmy, how I know him, how long had we been seeing each other. I almost believe her innocent act, but based on the way she talks about him, I assume they're close and she probably already knows everything. His apartment is weird without him in it, as if I'm intruding in his space. I know he doesn't see it that way, but this is still new.

He has a photo album I flip through after twenty minutes of warring with myself over whether or not it would be inappropriate to do so. Pictures of him as a kid in a countryside, France I'm assuming, overwhelm me. It's mostly just pictures of his family, old photos tacked into the pages, probably a hammy down or gift from someone. The pictures of him with his sister are among my favorites, their little faces squished together in scenes meant to capture memories I'd have to ask about. There are pictures of him shoved in the back folds of his time in high school, plays and class photos never placed into the book with permanence. They steal my breath, one in particular from _that_ winter, his hair tucked into a beanie as he stands on skis, a familiar backdrop of snow and cabin behind him. I stare at it for too long, at the hoodie I let him borrow peaking up under his jacket, his cheeks red from the cold. Something about it makes it hard to breathe.

I leave the album on the table and order take out for the both of us, putting his portions in the fridge for later in case he's hungry. The time passes slowly, but his apartment is cozy and smells like him. Eventually, the exhaust I feel from the week pulls me towards his bed where I collapse.

I wake to hands on my face, lips at my forehead. I mumble, shift around and stretch a bit, the hands slipping off me. "Shh sleep, it's okay."

"Timmy?" I groan, blinking my eyes open to see him smiling softly at me, body perched on the edge of the bed. I don’t really think, just react, knowing I need him closer than he is. He huffs out a laugh when I grab his thigh and yank him closer so I can snuggle his side, sleep simultaneously filling and evading me.

"You can sleep, it's okay."

"No, want you," I grumble, using my body weight to trap him at my side when he tries to wiggle away. It makes me smile, and eventually I open my eyes to see him an inch away, his fingertips moving to trace along my jaw. "Hi," I breathe out.

"Hi yourself." His lips press against mine and I guess I'm still half asleep because it doesn’t really feel real when he snakes his arms around my neck and moans into my mouth. Granted, everything with him feels like a dream, so it shouldn’t surprise me that this is any different. "I like this," he whispers, pulling back to thumb at the neck of my shirt. I hum in question and he smiles. "My bed looks _way_ better with you in it," he explains. I smile and let out a yawn, run my hands through his hair and down his sides. His shiver wakes me up and I kiss along his neck, a blush rising to my cheeks when he grabs at my back to keep me close. "You're frisky when you wake up," he chuckles, my hand on his ass as he nudges my face with his nose.

"So are you, or do I need to remind you about this morning?" I ask, licking the side of his neck. He gasps and swats at me, pulls me closer with his legs.

"I wouldn’t stop you from reminding me," he says, hands shoving under my shirt. We makeout for a while, halfway between dreams and reality. My shirt ends up tangled around me, but he won't take it off, the fabric covering the lines he must be leaving on my sides from the imprint of his fingers and nails. "Shower before bed?" he asks, teeth biting into my ear in a dangerous way that speaks to wanting more. "I'm still sweaty from rehearsals."

"I don't mind," I tell him, burrowing in his neck with a sigh. A shower does sound nice though, especially with him. We get up slowly, Timmy mostly dragging me towards the bathroom. He takes his time undressing me, his eyes lit up as he kisses along my chest after my shirts on the floor. He lets me wash his body and it takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for the teasing to be too much. He breathes heavy in my ear when I press him against the cool shower tiles and take him in hand, his voice broken and needy when it breaks the silence. "Been wanting this since I used your shower this morning.” I can only moan, pressing against his thigh before kissing him, his hands moving over me in time with my own hand, our breath stuck in the humid air of the bathroom. He kisses me when he comes, his voice pushing me over the edge a moment later. His arms drape over my shoulders while I finish washing his hair for him, finally allowing my hands to sink into his hair over and over again until he's laughing and telling me _surely it's clean by now._ He hangs all over me afterwards, needy and sleepy as I dry our bodies with a shared towel, something about the intimacy making my skin warm. He curls up in bed next to me and draws circles on my chest until I'm on the edge of sleep.

"Did you look at my pictures?" he asks suddenly. I blink my eyes open and turn towards him. "The photo album?"

"Oh… yes, sorry," I say sheepishly.

"It's okay, I don’t mind. There are some good ones in there."

"I saw the one of you at the lodge," I tell him, note how he clings a little closer at the mention of it. “God, we were so young.”

"My mom took it. Said I looked too adorable not to," he laughs.

"She was right." I feel his sigh and know he must be exhausted, wonder why he's trying to talk when he clearly needs sleep. "Maybe we should sleep?" I ask quietly.

"Don't want to," he mumbles. "Not yet. Don't wanna waste time." He's practically falling asleep on my chest though, and it sparks some dormant side of me that needs to wrap him up and promise forever to ease his mind. "Armie," he breathes out, but I'm fairly certain his attempt to start another conversation is halted by sleep. His breathing evens out and the weight of him lulls me before long.

 

 

 

I wake to him snoring lightly on my chest, his fingers curled into a loose fist tucked up under himself by his neck. His freckles are hardly visible in the pale and diluted light filtering in through his curtains; maybe I only see them because I know they exist on his skin, the darker ones scattered on his shoulders and body a bit easier to spot. A shiver forces him closer to me when I let my fingers skim his skin, his leg tightening around mine when my nails graze his back. He grumbles, his face pressed against my chest, and even though I can't see his face, I know he's pouting. I smile as he shrugs and shimmies trying to will the blankets higher over his body, and I help him out, clouding us both in the warmth of the comforter as he sighs and relaxes against me. "Skip," he mumbles, making me laugh.

"It's Saturday, love," I tell him, scratching at his scalp with a soft smile when it makes him hum and nuzzle closer. "You're the one with a long day, not me."

"Come to the theater with me?" he asks quietly, nuzzling around my chest before popping up with bright sleepy eyes to stare at me. It stops my heart—his face flush with sleep, hair messy and mused, lip caught up between his teeth. A hand snakes up and touches my lips, traces along my jaw, tender and wonderous in a way I'm still struggling to believe I can actually have with someone. I nod, helpless to his request. I'd go with him anywhere and he knows it. His smile is my reward, his head falling forward to press a kiss against my chest. I ache to grip at the curls that fall all over the place with the movement, but I don't want to draw attention to them. If I do, he might try to reign them in with his thin fingers.

"Gonna have to fight off the stagehands. They all want to fuck you." I laugh, startled at the comment, which makes him grin back at me with a shrug of his shoulders. "Gonna have to stake my claim."

"Oh, is that so?" I smirk to myself when he shivers at the touch of my hands running up his arms. He nods with that coy smile of his I love so much. "And how do you intend on doing that?"

"Oh, I don't know." His smile turns devilish as he kisses up to my neck, tracing a spot with his tongue, my heart rate spiking on impact. "I'm sure we can think of something," he adds, latching on the side of my neck with skill that leaves me breathless. By the time he moves on, his hand has snaked between us and swats away at my own when his touches get to be too much. His laugh when I can't help but complain about his teasing sounds distinctly different from anything I've ever heard from him and it sends me spinning, ready to cave to him, to do anything to hear it again. His tongue is in my mouth before I can really process it and then he's gone, wandering towards the kitchen with the confidence of a man who knows he'll be followed.

He sucks me off while we wait for coffee and comes from it, mumbling something about needing to change boxers with a grin that nearly brings me to my knees. We change and sip coffee on his couch while he runs through lines, his body propped up against mine before we have to go. Saturdays in the city usually meant reading manuscripts that had been passed over by my boss. Occasionally, I'd find a farmer's market and gather ingredients for weekend dinners that would take long enough to prepare that I wouldn't feel the loneliness creeping in. Today is entirely different, and it's barely even started. As he grabs his things for the day and kisses my lips, takes my hand to haul me out of the apartment, I know I can't go back to how I lived before this.

We hold hands the entire way through midtown and down Broadway, his unusually nervous voice asking if it was okay if he listened to music while we walked. "It's just my playlist for the character, it helps usually but I don't want to ignore you!" I told him to listen to it, overwhelmed at how unbearably casual it felt to walk him to work, his attention only half on me as he prepared for his day. By the time we made it to his stagedoor, I was a little bit more in love with him and couldn't explain why.

His fingers loosen around mine but don’t drop entirely as we make our way through the backstage area of the theater to his dressing room. He wasn't wrong; we get stopped and I get a fair amount of stares. He pulls me closer when a guy in a faded dark band shirt approaches and greets him, his eyes lingering over me. "Down, Devon," Timmy warns through a well-natured smirk.

"What, I can't look?" the boy asks, smiling openly at me with a nod that’s almost comical.

I'm used to a little attention, my size alone doing it for people. Timmy wasn’t joking when he said he would stake his claim, though. I can't deny that it's a little hot to see him pull me through the hallway by pushing me in front to put space between me and the stranger, his voice carrying out over his shoulder, "When was the last time you _just_ looked at a guest?"

"I blew _one_ guy in the greenroom! ONE. Everyone's a critic." I laugh as Timmy shakes his head with a smile and glance at me to kiss my shoulder as we enter his dressing room.

"Devon's like a little brother to me. His first job was on a play I did last year, he's been with this theater ever since," Timmy shrugs. "He's harmless, but loud and _not_ subtle," he laughs while tossing his bag on his cot. I catch his waist in my hands and kiss his neck, craving his touch. "He'll probably try to flirt with you during breaks."

"That doesn't bother you, does it?" I ask, remembering his streak of jealousy the morning before. He thinks for a moment, grabbing a zip-up hoodie to pull over his arms before turning back to me.

"No," he shakes his head. "Talk to whoever you want, I know you're coming home with me." My breath catches at the small smile he wears. "I know you're mine." His eyes soften as his words hang in the space between us. My chest buzzes with something cold yet warm, his hands reaching out to me suddenly for a hug I accept with a sigh.

"So I'm coming home with you?"

"It's a weekend, weekends are for my place," he says quickly.

" _What_?" I laugh, pulling back to run a hand through his hair.

"Weekdays, it makes sense to be at your place because of work. But weekends are mine because of the theater." His cheeks are pink but he just shrugs, kisses my lips, and walks over to his vanity area to pick up a script.

"I didn’t realize we were cohabitating," I say, cringing instantly, fearing he'll take it the wrong way. I did want that, hadn’t I just been thinking of it? He looks at me through his mirror with a hesitant expression. "I'm not complaining," I add, moving towards him to wrap my arms around his waist.

"I just figured because of the last few days but—"

"Timmy, I'm _not_ complaining," I say again, pressing a kiss to his neck. "I like your apartment. And I like you being in mine. If you want to spend the night during the week I'm sure as hell not going to stop you."

"Yeah?" He looks vulnerable in the mirror meeting my eyes. It reminds me of when we were younger, moments when that brave face would slip a little. His hands loop over mine on his body and like a flash of light I'm reminded that he's not used to this either, to the sort of assumed intimacy and confidence flowing between us.

"Timmy, I want to wake up to you every day," I tell him, thumbing soothing circles on his hip. "Every fucking day."

"Okay," he smiles shyly, the sight unsettling but adorable and warm.

"I'm going to need some more clothes," I smirk, kissing his shoulder.

"You can go while I'm working. It's going to be a long day."

"Will I be able to come back?" He smiles and nods, sinks back into my arms.

"I'll make sure it's okay," he tells me, turning his head to kiss my bicep. A knock at his door pulls him away from me, and before long he's out the door to start his rehearsals.

 

 

 

I run home and grab some essentials before going back to the theater and it almost worries me how I can't seem to stop smiling. I see Devon again while wandering back to Timmy’s room and he surprises me by dropping his flirtatious act and telling me he's glad I'm there, that Timmy's been in a rough spot and he could tell I'd made a difference. I think about it until Timmy comes back to his room during a short break, my heart all over the place with the thought of Timmy's friends seeing him struggling at all. I pull Timmy into a hug when he walks through the door and don't let him go until his laughter has subsided and has given way to him whispering to me that he's okay, somehow sensing that I'm lost in the time apart again. It's getting easier to let go of it, but sometimes the reminders make my heart ache all over again. His hands frame my face when he kisses me and tells me we're going to be okay now that we're together, and I believe him wholeheartedly.

We sit on his cot and he lets me massage his shoulders while he relaxes before going back out. "They said you could watch, if you want," he mumbles, head tilting to the side when my lips press to his neck.

"Will it ruin the fun of opening weekend?" I ask, but I'm a bit desperate to see him on stage, so I don't think the answer even matters.

"No, that'll be different," he says, turning towards me to kiss me. I agree to watch and follow him out of the room, kiss him goodbye when I have to turn to go to sit down, and wait in the nearly vacant theater for him to show up on stage.

He's right, this is _clearly_ a rehearsal and there are moments where everything stops for new directions or insight, but it still pulls me apart to see him up there. He is so in his element that it's hard to grapple with the shy, vulnerable man who I saw earlier in his dressing room and the man commanding all the attention on stage. I watch him transform under the story, under the script he acts so perfectly that you'd think it was about him. His voice breaks with a monologue, my heart clumped up in my throat making it hard to breathe. Each time he’s given notes, he worries his lip between his teeth and nods, asks questions occasionally, then slips back into the character like an article of clothing. By the time we're reunited for him to go home, I'm at a loss for words. He laughs breathlessly when all I can seem to do is pull him into a wordless hug afterwards, anything to keep him close and in my arms even as he squirms away in an attempt to gather his things in his dressing room. "Armie," he laughs, shoving me away from him so he can slip his backpack on, reaching for my own bag to give to me. "Can you walk back to my place or are you too clingy for that?" I know he's teasing, but I'm still tempted to figure out what the alternative option is. "Cab or walking?" he clarifies, trying to hide his smile when I reach for his hand.

"I can walk, don't be dramatic," I say. He rolls his eyes and laughs when I pull him back into a hug, lowering my body enough that I can rest my head against his shoulder. He drags this side out of me I’ve never felt with anyone but him—any trepidation I ever had with a lover before about public affection is blown out of the water with him. If he is with me, there doesn’t even feel like another option. I sigh deeply and kiss the side of his head.

"Sure, I'm being dramatic," he mumbles, ruffling my hair. "Come on, let's get home so we can snuggle." It's embarrassing how warm his words make me when they're so innocent. And as much as I hate to admit it, he _was_ right; I find it difficult to walk at his side with only our hands touching the entire way. I need him everywhere at once, in every inch of my life and in every memory of every day. He doesn't complain when I toss our bags on the floor of his kitchen and snake my arms around his waist before the door is even locked, doesn't even laugh when my arms tighten as he tries to escape to take his shoes off. "Baby, can we get comfortable?" he asks, smiling softly as he presses a hand against my face. I know I'm being ridiculous, but I can't help it. After we've made it to his bed and have started to strip, my measly willpower leaves me and we end up under his blankets in our socks and boxers, my shirt even still on. His hands run through my hair as we makeout and I feel like I've never really loved anyone like this before, not even _him_. I've never felt like I could heal from someone's touch, or like I could communicate through a glance or brush of lips. With him, words don't even matter sometimes. Even more than when we were kids, I feel like I could have an entire conversation with him without ever speaking a word. He just knows me, with a single glance, knows exactly what I'm thinking and feeling. When he looks at me, I feel it too. Like something in us just _knows_ what the other needs. Like we just know how to love each other. Inherently. As if we were truly made for each other.

We don’t speak for what feels like an hour, our breath the only indication of time changing and passing as we mess up his already messy bed. I feel his legs shifting at some point and realize he's trying to take off his socks, the movement startling me enough to pull away to laugh at how much he's struggling. "What! _You_ want to wear socks to bed?" he laughs back, swatting at me after tossing them over the side of the bed.

"You're going to complain about your toes getting cold now."

"Not with your thighs to keep them warm," he smirks, pulling me back on top of him. Something shifts between us, though. The silence is broken, his eyes bright with life as he shies up under me, lip tucked between his teeth. He doesn’t make a move, just watches me, and it only takes a minute for it to be too much—too much emotion, too much _something_. I sit back and roll my eyes, take my socks off, and smile at him when he starts laughing with his elbows propped up so he can see. "You goof," he says softly, eyes tracing my movements as my shirt follows the little pile of clothes.

"Better?" I ask, hands out to show my now bare torso. One of his hands reaches out and brushes over my chest hair and along the line of my boxers and he shrugs with that little smile of his, green eyes sparkling in the lamp light of his room. Time doesn’t seem to exist with him when we're alone like this. It's as if everything slows down to make up for lost time.

Though, as I lower my body to press messy kisses up his body to reach his lips through his fits of ticklish giggles, it doesn’t seem like I've actually lost any time at all. His hands at my sides, his heart in my chest—it doesn’t feel like we've lost _anything_.

He feels different tonight. Maybe it's the tired eyes we both have or the familiarity we've already started building of each other's bodies, or maybe it's just that we're starting to believe this will work. Whatever it is, he's different under my hands. Every breath of his seems to fill my lungs, his urgency and desire all over his face and neck in red splotches when I'm pressing into him, his eyes bright when I tell him to look at me. When he smiles because it feels good, it's the most blissed I've ever seen him. My hair is threaded between his fingers every time I kiss him, his voice a breathless _oh fuck_ every time I stop.

It feels like writing our names on each other's skin just because we can. It feels like him leaning against me in his dressing room for support, like his hand in mine when I'm worried or nervous. It feels like waking up and seeing him, and falling asleep with him on my chest. It feels like _home_. It feels like _love._

Neither of us can keep our eyes open after, the both of us sinking deeply into the bed almost instantly. He's landed a few inches too far from me, the space ice cold until a faint whine slips out of his lips and he scoots closer so he's under my arm where he stays as we drift off.

 

He wakes up before I do, the bed cold and empty without him in it. He's making coffee in nothing but my shirt, the sight making me smile as I wake up slowly. He stumbles and curses under his breath, his eyes darting over to me. "Shit, did I wake you up?" he asks, frowning. I shake my head no. For a moment, he just stands there watching me watch him. My chest feels warm the longer I look. "You zoning out?" he teases quietly, walking over to sit at the edge of the bed. His hand runs through my hair before settling over my heart as he smiles.

"Just feeling really lucky," I mumble. It's the truth. "Sometimes it still feels like I'm dreaming." His lips are soft when they press against mine in a faint kiss that I lean up into, a hum slipping out.

"Don't get up, I like you like this," he whispers when I shift my weight in an attempt to move. "All sleepy. Fucking cute." I have to laugh at the way he juts his chin out and nods with a smile, his fingers playing at my chest hair. "I'll bring you coffee."

And he's gone, just like that, walking back to the kitchen to grab another mug for me. He goes up on his tiptoes when he opens a cabinet which is bullshit because he can absolutely reach every shelf, but my shirt rides up and exposes somewhat splotchy but faint red marks on his ass. I smile to myself, sensing he's giving me a show intentionally, and wait for him to come back to me. I recline, get comfortable—after looking at the clock I know we have a lazy morning before we need to get to the theater.

It doesn’t quite occur to me until he's wagging his eyebrows and walking over to me after catching me ogling him that I think of this as a _we_ thing now, not a _him_ thing. _We_ would go to the theater. It wasn't something we talked about, but I almost didn't have to ask. I knew I would be going with him, and for some reason the thought of so easily being placed into his routine makes me want to tell everyone I know about this amazing man.

"Here babe," he murmurs, pressing a mug into my palm as he sits on the bed, precariously trying to get under some of the covers to warm his legs. I take his mug while he settles down, half draped over me though sitting up. "Good morning," he says with a lingering kiss before taking his mug back. I can't stop my smile when he hums contentedly and runs his free hand over my chest again.

"You have a thing for that, don't you?" I ask him, eyes crinkling I'm sure from how much I'm smiling.

"What?" His hand freezes innocently when I glance down at it. "Your chest hair?" His nails scrape over my chest and I sink into the bed. "Why would I have a thing for your chest hair, Armie?"

"Mhmm," I roll my eyes, noting his playful expression as it grows in confidence. I shift my legs and he nearly stumbles, but it brings us closer together.

"I can't go another round this morning, don't get feisty," he warns, but makes no move to put space between us. If anything, he tucks himself closer.

"We have time though."

"Your dick is massive and I'm sore," he laughs, blushing slightly as he sips his coffee. "Gotta get used to it." And I'd like to say it doesn't do something to me, but it definitely does, and he chuckles when he feels me stirring. "Stroked your ego, did I?"

"You're accusing _me_ of being feisty? Jesus."

"You're fun to tease," he beams.

"Yeah, you've always thought so." I watch his expression grow fond, the way he touches me altering subtly at the reminder of how far we've come.

"I never dreamed we'd be like this," he says softly. "I dreamed we'd be together, but not like _this._ You keep surprising me, even this right here how comfortable you seem to be. It's like everything I wanted for you actually happened. You're exactly the man I hoped you'd grow up to be, you know that?"

"Shit." He shrugs a little and touches my cheek, but nothing could overpower his words just now. God, this man. _This man._ My eyes are already stinging, maybe from the shock of such an unfiltered and unsolicited confession from him, maybe just the words themselves. How many times I'd wondered if he would even recognize me, let alone love me still?

And here he is, completely unapologetic in how he loves me. How he accepts me. And how he clearly thought of me enough to wonder how I was turning out, that he sees me now is not disappointed, but is still somehow and by some miracle caught up in this connection we have. He watches me now with those eyes that I know will always soften when they meet mine. With his smile that is all it takes to make me feel like I am home.

"Armie?" he whispers, his voice a beacon.

"I think I just fell in love with you again." His eyes widen and for a moment, we're both silent. For some reason, it doesn't feel weird to say this to him. It doesn't even make me nervous or make my heart race or anything. It just _is_ , because it's so true, and because I know he can probably tell I'm thinking it anyway.

He takes my mug and puts it on the bedside table next to his and leans in to kiss me, his hands on either side of my face. "Every day we spend together I fall a little more in love with you. Every day," he whispers against my lips. "I keep thinking that maybe something will go wrong and the thing is, I don’t think that moment is coming, Armie. I really, I just—" I can't help but kiss him as he stumbles on his words. I can't remember the last time I felt so emotionally vulnerable for so many days at a time.

By the time we've caught our breath, he thumbs at my cheekbone with a small smile. "We should get ready soon."

"I just want to lay here with you," I tell him. His eyes slip closed and he leans against my chest for a drawn out breath. Eventually, we get dressed and eat before grabbing our stuff to leave. I pack up most of my things but leave a pair of sweatpants and the shirt Timmy wore to bed behind. I let him kiss me breathless before we unlock the front door and smile when he peppers kisses over my lips through giggles before turning around to let us out of his place.

It's like opening up a fresh manuscript and sensing the story line as it begins, wondering how exactly it'll all play out. I look at him and know that as we walk up the street, he will hold my hand, and open the stagedoor for us, and kiss me before going to rehearsals. Beyond that, our future is only certain of one thing—

It'll be together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT THE END lol i feel like i have to say that every chapter to someone. I'm gearing up rn for the next part of the story so the next ch will be a little transitional but nothing insane is going to happen so dont fret! 
> 
> A note on comments-- I read them as you leave them, and always wait to respond until I've written the next chapter. I'm going to reply to all of them, but I really wanted to get this chapter up before tomorrow so I'll be replying soon! I _love _reading the comments on this fic and they always leave me feeling so happy. Thank you for the love yall!!__


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